VALLEY OF THE DOLLS - 4

VALLEY OF THE DOLLS

JACQUELINE SUSANN

( INSTALMENT 4 )

******

Kevin flooded the newspapers with stories about the coming television spectacular. Neely was interviewed by several major magazines, and television columnists heralded it as a major breakthrough. The medium was coming of age. At last the viewers would be given genuine talent.

Kevin engaged a top choreographer, a top director and producer. He stepped up production on new products to be introduced on the show, and special sets were built for Anne to demonstrate the new glamour line. The show was to be aired the beginning of November. It promised to be the most spectacular event on television that season.

Neely moved into a hotel, installed a piano and spent the entire month of October between her hotel suite and Nola Studios, rehearsing, dieting, working with the old discipline. She was determined to show them in Hollywood and make Helen Lawson eat her words. Washed up, was she? Unreliable, only able to sing for free? She’d like to have seen Helen’s face when she read the papers. Every paper stated it was the largest single salary ever paid on television. They also applauded Neely’s courage for leaping into the new medium.

Neely had no fears. True, there were no retakes on a live show. Well, all the better. She’d show Hollywood—she’d show them all. In interviews she played the gurgling, nervous, eager young Neely. “Sure she was scared” ... “sure she was biting off a lot.” But secretly she knew it was a cinch ... a wrap-up. How could she miss—twelve standards, six of them songs she had introduced; no untried material and not even one scene to learn—you just read all the lead-ins off idiot cards. Geez, if those Hollywood squares knew it was this easy, they’d be crowding the networks. But these opinions she kept to herself.

Neely took three Seconals the night before the great day. Dress rehearsal was scheduled for ten in the morning, and she arrived on time, well rested and eager to begin. The first hour was spent in testing her makeup. Then at eleven-thirty the actual rehearsal began. She did the opening dialogue smoothly, with youthful enthusiasm. Then she started her first song. She did three bars and the director called, “Cut.” He walked out of the booth and down the aisle. “Neely, you were singing to the wrong camera.”

“I don’t get you,” she said nicely. She was supposed to sing. The camera was the cameraman’s problem.

“Camera One was on you for the opening. But for your song you turn to Camera Two.”

“Which is Camera Two?”

“The one with the red light. You do the first half to it, then shift to Camera Three for the chorus, then wind up the last eight bars at Camera Two again.”

“Geez, I’d have to go through M.I.T. to figure that out. Why do we need all those cameras?”

“Honey, it sounds tougher than it actually is. Just remember the red light—that’s the camera that’s on you. You can’t miss.”

She began again, carefully watching the cameras. It went all right, but she lost her place on the cue cards. Next time she focused on the cue cards and missed Camera Three.

“Don’t worry about the cards,” the director pleaded. “He’ll follow you. You just follow the cameras.”

“But I’m used to the camera following me,” she wailed.

The director was patient. “You’ll get it. Now let’s try again.”

There were two more rehearsals. The director’s face took on the haggard look of quiet desperation. “Neely, you walked past the chalk marks twice, out of camera range.”

“But I have to move when I sing.”

“Fine, baby. But let’s mark it out so I can plan it with the cameras.”

“I can’t. I move as I feel it, and each time I feel it differently.”

And so it went, hour after hour of grueling camera rehearsals. Neely’s makeup began to run and her hair went limp. At five o’clock they had not done one complete run-through.

The director called a dinner break. He came to Neely and carelessly threw his arm across her shoulder. “At six we’ll go through it straight from the top. Keep going even if you make a mistake. I’ve got to time it. Then I’ll give you the mistakes and changes and cuts, and you’ll have time to fix your makeup and take a breather before air-time.”

To Neely the final dress rehearsal was a nightmare. The red eye of the camera seemed to be leaping constantly off and on, and the cue cards with the lyrics seemed to blur under the hot lights. She would be into a song, feeling it deeply, hitting notes she knew were perfect. . . . Her eyes would close, then fly open in panic. There was no wonderful Hollywood camera following her around, waiting to record every move; no one to splice and put all the best shots together. No, just those red-eyed monsters she had to follow, and those constantly shifting cardboards with the words. She lost them—she shouldn’t have closed her eyes. Where were they? She hummed a lyric. He said to go on ... God where were the cards? And which camera? On the left—yes, the red eye was on. Thank God, the song was over. Jesus, now what? What was the card saying? Oh yes, introduce Anne and the product. Oh thank God! Anne was talking now—she had a breather. Jesus! She should have rushed to the wings! There was the frantic maid, waving her arms—this was the three-minute change. Only three minutes to change her dress, and Anne was half through already. . . .

“I can’t!” she screamed. “I can’t do it! I can’t really make a song come alive if I have to worry about chalk: marks, cameras and quick changes. If I want to shut my eyes, I have to shut my eyes. I feel it that way. I can’t do it—I can’t!”

Kevin had been in the control room. He dashed down the aisle and joined the director. Together they tried to calm her.

“I won’t go on. I’ll make a fool of myself!” Neely’s voice broke.

“Neely, you’re a pro,” the director begged. “Once that audience fills the theatre and you hear the applause, it will all come to you.”

“No,” she sobbed. “I’d need a week of this camera rehearsal. I can’t follow eight things at once and be good. I can’t stand on certain chalk marks and watch for cameras and cue cards. I can’t do it—I’ll blow higher than a kite!”

“Neely.” Anne put her arm around her. “Remember in Philadelphia, how you jumped into a part in Hit the Sky with just a moment’s notice?”

“I had nothing to lose,” Neely cried. “I was a kid. I had no reputation at stake. I’m a star now—if I look bad or blow up I’m through.”

“You’ll be fine,” the director kept repeating.

“No, no! I’m not doing the show!”

“Neely, you’ve got to,” Anne insisted. “The time is paid for ... the show goes on in an hour.”

“I can’t do it,” she sobbed.

“Then you’ll never work again,” the director suddenly snapped.

“Who wants to? If I never set foot near a television studio again, it’s too soon for me!”

“I mean in any medium,” the director said coolly.

“Who says?” “AFTRA. If you walk out on a show like this, it’s breaking a contract. All the unions are affiliated in upholding the rules. AFTRA, SAG and Equity.”

“What would happen if I suddenly dropped dead?”

He smiled coldly. “Unfortunately, I hardly think that’s likely.”

“Couldn’t you just announce that I developed a sudden case of laryngitis?” she pleaded.

The director sighed. “Neely, the network doctor would insist on examining you. The network went co-op on all the ads—they’ve spent a fortune. Now look. You’ve got an hour—don’t even think about the show. Go to your dressing room and relax.”

Neely went to her dressing room. She made a hurried phone call and contacted a bellboy at her hotel. He arrived ten minutes later. A twenty-dollar bill and a small bottle exchanged hands. Neely stared at the bottle. “You little red dolls,” she said softly. “Now for God’s sake do your work. I’m relying on you. I can’t even help you with the booze—they’d say I was drunk.” She quickly swallowed six. “Come on, babies,” she cooed as she lay down. “Come on ... I haven’t eaten anything. You little dolls can work fast on an empty stomach.”

In ten minutes she began to feel the familiar light-headed reaction. She let it seep through her. It wasn’t enough. They’d be able to rouse her with black coffee. She staggered over to the sink and took two more. “Come on, dollies, make Neely groggy so’s she can be sick ...” She heard the muffled sounds of the audience filing in, the musicians tuning up. She gulped down two more. Dimly she heard someone calling her name, but she was floating far away ...

******

The network had to run a kinescope of a past show. They announced that due to technical difficulties the Neely O’Hara show would not be aired. Kevin did not bring charges against Neely, but the network did. Neely had to be a test case, they said. Too many big names had been scheduled for spectaculars in the new season, and if Neely got away with it there might be other disasters. She received a one-year suspension from all work—pictures, stage, nightclubs and television.

At first she didn’t care. She went back to California and holed up at her pool. The newspapers and trade papers attacked her without mercy. They called her temperamental; they hinted that she had been drinking; they unanimously declared she was washed up.

Sometimes she spent day after day in bed, until her housekeeper would force her to the pool. Sometimes at midnight she’d leap into her car and head for a bar. There she’d stand, with a bandana around her hair and no makeup, unrecognized, lost in soft anonymity, sipping beer, happy to be with people. She didn’t care; she had enough money; she could sit out the year. It would blow over, and then she’d get back into shape and maybe do a Broadway show. That would be fun. She’d show them. Meantime she could eat anything she wanted . . . and drink. There were always the wonderful red and yellow dolls—and now there were even some new blue-striped ones!

Anne was badly shaken by Neely’s behavior. Her first instinct had been to follow her to the Coast. Neely was in no condition to be left alone. But her own television commitments could not be ignored ... and there was her loyalty to Kevin, too. She felt a personal guilt about the Neely walkout, which had been very costly. He had been forced to pay for the time, the advertisements, the musicians and the overtime, with no high-rated program to show for it.

But as the weeks passed, her anxiety about Neely was submerged in the constant daily crisis of live television. New color tests were being done, and sometimes the hot lights were almost unbearable. Yet she never thought of quitting—there was nothing else she particularly wanted to do.

Sometimes items about Neely—blind or real—appeared in the columns. Everyone seemed convinced that Neely was going through some kind of deliberate self-destruction, yet it was impossible for Anne to reconcile the image of the nervous, tortured Neely with the bright-eyed child who had once lived below her on Fifty-second Street. That was the real Neely. This phantom that Hollywood had created would eventually disappear and the real Neely would return.

It seemed impossible that a place could really change people. More than a decade had passed, yet in some ways she felt no different than she had when she first arrived in New York. If she sat and analyzed herself she knew she would find New York was no longer a pulsating fairyland. Broadway was a Coney Island arcade and Forty-second Street was a tenderloin. Fifth Avenue no longer thrilled her. Even the giant tree at Rockefeller Center at Christmas was no longer a spectacle. An opening of a show or nightclub brought out the same stale faces.

But it was still a better world by far than the world of Lawrenceville. In Lawrenceville people hibernated and life passed them by. At least she was on the scene, where things were happening. Yet something was lacking. Sometimes she looked in the mirror very closely and tried to see herself objectively. Had she changed? She used makeup now—had she really gone to El Morocco in those early days with just a dab of powder and lipstick? Now she felt undressed without the subtle pancake, the eye shadow and mascara. And her clothes—she still insisted things be simple and muted in color, but name designers created the well-cut suits and she had long since discarded Jennifer’s mink coat for one of her own, designed by New York’s leading furrier.

But once, for a fleeting moment, the passage of time was wiped out by the expression in Allen Cooper’s eyes. They met accidentally at the Colony. She was with Kevin. Allen introduced his wife, an attractive young girl who wore a large emerald-cut diamond, identical to the one Allen had given her. At the moment a crazy idea hit Anne—maybe he had a drawer full, in all sizes for the proper occasions.

She had often wondered what she’d do or how she’d feel if she ran into Allen. And like most long-anticipated meetings, the actual happening was uneventful and far from dramatic. Allen was losing his hair, but he still wore striped ties and he still traveled with Gino. Age had suddenly caught up with Gino. He had developed the palsied fragility that afflicted so many elderly people. He seemed to be shriveling away before her eyes.

She knew Allen had wanted to be indifferent and curt, but the old admiration welled in his eyes. “Anne ... you look marvelous.”

“You look well too, Allen.”

“We see you all the time on television, don’t we, Gino?”

“Yeah, sure,” Gino answered. There was a pause. God, was there nothing to say after ten years?

“Allie always points you out when you do those commercials.” This was Allen’s wife.

“I’m glad to hear that you watch. Most people run to the refrigerator for beer while I’m on.”

“No, I always watch, even though I don’t use the Gillian products. My beautician says—” She stopped suddenly, alerted by the pressure Allen put on her arm.

Kevin came to the rescue. “I’m sure anyone so young and lovely doesn’t need much help from cosmetics.”

The girl blushed with pleasure and giggled.

“What’s with our table?” Gino complained shrilly. “If we’da gone to Morocco instead of this fancy place we wouldn’t be standing around like this.”

The captain motioned to Kevin that his table was ready. There were mumbled good-bys. Anne and Kevin walked away as Gino went into another tirade about the lousy service and why didn’t they go to Morocco.

Anne felt sad. People parted, years passed, they met again—and the meeting proved no reunion, offered no warm memories, only the acid knowledge that time had passed and things weren’t as bright or attractive as they had been. She was glad Lyon was in England. She’d hate to run into him like this, to find that his hair had thinned or that the girl he dated was too young, too insipid. It was better to keep a memory intact.

She wondered about Jennifer, too. Was Jennifer afraid to come back? At the last minute she had turned down Century’s offer and remained in Europe. Was she afraid of Hollywood? How could she be? She was the biggest star in Europe today, and her pictures were equally popular in America. She looked magnificent on the screen. Anne was well aware of the tricks and wonders of lighting, and of course Jennifer was thirty-seven, even though she was ten years younger in all her publicity releases and in her American image as well. Perhaps she was smart remaining in Europe. If Neely was any example, Hollywood could be frightening.

Jennifer

1957

Jennifer was scared of Hollywood—scared to death. Half a bottle of Seconals and a stomach pump had forced Claude to reconsider and not sign with Century the year before. But this year brought another fantastic offer, and this one was just too lucrative to pass up. A three-picture deal and one million dollars deposited tax free in a Swiss bank! Of course Claude would split it with her, but half a million clear! She couldn’t turn that down. And at thirty-seven her looks were still intact—the right lights dissolved all the tiny lines. Claude would have the entire say on everything, and he would see about the silk on the camera and the soft lighting. Of course, there were the candid photographs to contend with. There would be reporters at Idlewild in New York, and there would be an even bigger reception in Hollywood. Flash cameras couldn’t be fooled, but Claude would think of something. Maybe she could stage a Garbo-like entrance—hide from the cameras.

Early one morning, a week after she had signed the contract, Claude arrived at her apartment.

“I just got the cable—the money is deposited.”

“Separately?” she asked.

“Yes. Here is your number—put it in a vault. I have my own.”

She stretched in bed happily. “Isn’t it wonderful? I can have a three-month vacation before I leave. Maybe I’ll go to Capri, and then New York. I’ll wear a black wig. I’ll see all the shows with Anne and really have some fun. God, it will be good to speak English again.”

Claude threw back the covers and yanked her out of bed. Then he flung open the windows and let the daylight in.

“Are you crazy?” she asked.

“Stand just as you are—at the window.” She shivered. It was September, but the sun was weak and cold as it grudgingly forced its way through a clouded Paris sky.

He sighed. “Yes, it must be done.”

“What must be done?”

“The face lift.”

“You are crazy!” She pulled away from him and threw on her robe.

He dragged her to the mirror. “Here, look at yourself in the daylight. No! Don’t hold your head up and smile—look at yourself in repose.”

“Claude ... I’ll always be in makeup. And I know my best angles. Who would ever get a chance to see me like this?”

“Hollywood! The makeup men, the studio hairdressers ... word will travel fast.”

“But I’m still not exactly a hag. I look pretty good for thirty-seven.”

“But you don’t look twenty-seven!” She stared in the mirror. Well, there was a little slack under her jaw. Not much, really ... if she held her head back and smiled, it disappeared. But in repose it was there. A wattle, Claude called it. Yes, she saw what he meant—that indefinable slackness in the skin that tells the difference between the twenties and the thirties.

No actual lines, but the taut, young look was gone. No one noticed these things in a café, or with flattering lighting ... but they were there. Maybe he was right. But Jesus! Face-lifting at thirty-seven! She had always thought of waxen-faced old crows of sixty when she thought of face-lifting. She recalled the heavily mascaraed, white-faced monstrosities she had seen in New York, with someone always whispering, “She’s sixty-five. Had her face done, but it doesn’t help.” No, it was too risky.

“Claude, don’t let Hollywood panic you. I’ve been there. It’s not as rough as you think. Everyone is scared of everyone else. I’ll get by.”

“I don’t want you to just get by!” he thundered. “You are the sex goddess of Europe. All Hollywood is waiting to see how you measure up to their sex symbols—Monroe, Elizabeth Taylor—and those girls are young.”

“I’m not Liz Taylor or Marilyn Monroe. I’m Jennifer North. I’m me!”

“And what are you? A face and a pair of breasts! That’s all you are ... all you’ve ever been!”

“I haven’t done a nude scene in my last seven pictures!”

“Because the image is planted. You could wear a burlap bag, but everyone knows what’s under it. They know every inch of your body by heart, and they see it no matter what you wear. Don’t ever get it into your head that you have anything else to offer.”

“Then the image exists in America, too. They’ve seen all my pictures.”

“Jennifer, don’t you trust my judgment?” His manner changed and he tried a gentle smile. “You do have something else. There are plenty of naked stars in Europe, but they cannot touch you. Because you have one extra ingredient. A sweetness, a youthful sweetness that no French girl seems to have. They can be piquant, mischievous, naive—but you have that American freshness. And that freshness can only be retained with youth. A young face. Despite the golden hair and the sexy breasts, there is something about your looks that conveys an impression of innocence, of girlishness ... almost of purity. Now, we have no problems with your body. It’s still marvelous—but you’ve got to drop ten pounds.”

“Oh no you don’t! That’s what happened to Neely. As it is, I take three or four sleeping pills every night to keep the circles away. You’re not going to get me on the pep pills. I weigh one-eighteen and I’m five foot six—that’s thin enough.”

“For nude scenes, yes. But not for the high fashions they will put you in. But you will not take pep pills. I have it all arranged. You will go to Switzerland for the sleep cure.”

“The sleep cure. That’s for nervous breakdowns, isn’t it?”

“Also good for weight. I’ve informed them you wish to lose ten pounds. They’ll put you to sleep for eight days. You sleep ... and you awake thin, rested and beautiful. After that, there will probably be more slack to your face. Then you will have the lift.”

Traveling through the hills of Lausanne, she thought of Maria and wondered about her. It all seemed such a lifetime ago, yet she remembered it with such clarity.

The clinic was beautiful. She entered under an assumed name, and only a handful of trusted people knew her true identity.

“You must not worry,” the head physician said. “You will sleep. But we will awaken you for your meals, and at all times a nurse will be in constant attendance. You will eat without realizing it, you will be walked around the room and taken to the bathroom, but you will not be aware of any of this. However, this bit of exercise is necessary to keep the lungs from filling. A nurse will change your sleeping position every hour. And when you wake up, you will have lost your ten pounds.”

Jennifer smiled. “But I’ll also have lost a week of my life. Besides, I was under the impression the sleep cure was for emotional disturbances.”

“True. Of course, it cannot cure a deep-rooted disturbance, one that took years to form. For that we need psychiatric therapy and possibly even electric shock. But it is excellent for the situational depression. Let us give you an example. A married woman from Hollywood is here now. Her husband is a big director. One of their small children wandered into the swimming pool and was drowned. She is inconsolable. She could not face the days ahead. Her husband and friends were sympathetic, and she knows time will heal, but meanwhile she cannot go on. She feels she cannot live through the necessary months or years that will ease the memory. That is where the sleep cure helps. You see, the brain has little niches. Each niche is a thought or a memory. If we think of the same thing repeatedly, the niche grows deeper and the thought is ingrained. It is the way an actor learns his lines. But when the thought stops, the niche begins to fill in like a cut. And in time it is erased. The deep tragedy and love for the child is cut deeply in this woman’s mind. Three weeks of the sleep cure will help the gash to heal over. When she awakens, she will be aware she has lost her child, but the hurt and inconsolable ache will be gone. The release that five years of time might give will have come in three weeks—saving her years of anguish.”

Jennifer grinned. “Well, if I’m ever a fat, unhappy girl, I’ll take the three-week job. Now I just want to lose ten pounds.”

He nodded. “Eight days will do it.”

It was that simple. A smiling nurse brought her a glass of champagne, “for the good sleep and happy thoughts.” She sipped it slowly. Soon a young doctor appeared. He checked her pulse and blood pressure, then gently slid a hypodermic needle into her arm. She put the glass down. She had never experienced such a feeling. It began at the tip of her toes; it eased through her legs; it rushed through her hips .. and then suddenly she floated off into space and she felt nothing more.

She must have slept through the night, she decided. The sun was shining when she opened her eyes. The nurse appeared with a breakfast tray. Jennifer smiled. “They said I’d sleep through the meals, but I’m wide awake.”

“But you did sleep.” The nurse was grinning.

“How long?”

“Eight days.” Jennifer sat up. “You mean ...”

The nurse nodded. “Mademoiselle weighs twelve pounds less—one hundred and six.”

“Oh, how divine!” Jennifer exclaimed. “God, what an invention!”

She returned to Paris and Claude was delighted. “I have arranged the face-lifting,” he said. This time she did not argue. The drastic loss of weight had made her look haggard. Suddenly he said, “Undress.”

She stared at him. “Claude—that’s been dead between us for years.”

“I have no desire to make love to you,” he said with irritation. “I want to see if the loss of weight has hurt your body.”

She slid out of her clothes. “Nothing’s happened. Besides, what difference does it make? I’m not doing nude roles in America.”

He inspected her breasts clinically. “I have arranged for you to take a series of hormone shots to maintain the firmness of your breasts. They will be given while you recuperate from the face lift.”

“And where does all this gloriousness take place?”

“It was not easy. But it is arranged. You go to the Clinique Plastique tomorrow, under an assumed name again.”

******

Claude had been right; it had not been easy. The operation itself had been uncomfortable, but it was the recuperative period that had taken the most out of her. Six weeks of isolation; staring at her swollen, mottled face, her bloodshot eyes, the hideous black stitches behind her ears; wondering if she would ever return to normal, terrified that she had made a mistake. But gradually, as time passed, the stitches were removed and the scars went from a bright, angry red to a light pink that she knew would eventually fade.

The swelling went down, and her spirits soared. Claude had been right all around; it was an unqualified success. She doubted if she had looked this perfect at twenty. She didn’t look twenty, but she looked magnificent. Not a line in her face, and the tautness of the skin gave it a flawless appearance. She was sure she could pass Hollywood’s harshest scrutiny. She arrived at Idlewild on a bright day in December. When the cameras flashed and the reporters crowded in, she was suddenly grateful to Claude. She noticed several women reporters eying her closely, and she smiled with easy confidence. She was not afraid of the strong sunlight or the close glances. She knew she looked perfect. And the newspapers noticed it, too. Every one of them commented that she was even more beautiful than her screen image.

She insisted on remaining in New York for a week while she renewed acquaintances with Anne. They spent long hours catching up on Jennifer’s adventures and many transitory romances. At last Anne told of her relationship with Kevin.

Jennifer sighed. “I don’t care how nice you say he is, he’s a louse for not marrying you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Anne insisted. “I’m not really in love with him. It’s better this way.”

“Still looking for the stars-in-your-eyes kind of love?” Jennifer asked. “You know, Anne, I guess a woman can either love or be loved, but it’s almost impossible to have both.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, but it just doesn’t seem to work out that way. You should know. Allen loved you, even wanted to marry you. And Kevin loves you. Yet you could walk away from either of them and feel nothing. You loved Lyon ... and he was able to walk away from you.”

“No, I was stupid about that. If you knew how many nights ... even now, I still lie awake and relive it in my mind. How I should have handled it. How it could have worked.”

“By going back to Lawrenceville?”

“Yes. It wouldn’t have been forever. His career as an author would have been the same. His first book would have gotten great reviews and made no money. Then he would have written that terrible commercial one—that was a gesture of defiance—then a few more, and finally movie scenarios. That’s what he’s doing in London. The same thing would have happened here. Only he’d be in New York writing for television, or out in Hollywood. Anyway, we’d be together. I just panicked. If only I had thought it out ...”

“But a man who could walk away like that ... Anne, he never really cared.”

Anne set her jaw firmly. “He loved me. I know he did.”

“Sure, just like Allen thought you loved him. Like Kevin thinks you love him. He’s so sure of you he doesn’t even feel he has to marry you. Anne, if you really feel Kevin loves you, make him marry you. It’s a pretty rare thing to be loved. It’s never happened to me.”

“Oh, come on now, Jen. All of Europe loves you ... and now you’ve got America as well.”

“They love my face and body. Not me! There’s such a difference, Anne.” Then she shrugged. “Maybe I’m just not very lovable.”

“I love you, Jen—really.”

Jennifer smiled. “I know you do. It’s a pity we’re not queer—we’d make a marvelous team.”

Anne laughed. “If we were, maybe it wouldn’t work out this way. As you said, one loves and the other is loved. Or maybe it’s different with Lesbians.”

Jennifer had a far-off look. “No ... even with queers, one loves and the other is loved.” She studied her face in the mirror. “Well, you’ve got Kevin—and I’ve got Hollywood.”

“But you are enjoying your success, aren’t you?” Anne asked.

Jennifer shrugged. “At times. But I hate the work. I never was a career girl. I’m no dedicated actress. And I always had my share of the limelight, first with the Prince and then with Tony. And it all adds up to the same thing—I really didn’t earn any of it—the Prince, Tony or my career. My face and body got it for me. Oh, God, I’d give my life for someone who would just love me ...”

“If that’s what you really want, Jen, you’ll find it. I’m sure you will.”

Jennifer reached out and grabbed Anne’s hand. “Pray for it, Anne. I want to get out of this rat race. I want a man to love me ... I want a child. It’s not too late. Pray that I meet the right guy so I can tell Claude and everyone else to go drop dead!”

Anne

1960

Kevin Gillmore suffered a serious heart attack in the spring of 1960. For two weeks he lay gray and lifeless in an oxygen tent. The moment he was strong enough to speak, he reached for Anne’s hand. “Anne, am I going to make it?”

He seemed reassured when she squeezed his hand and nodded.

“Promise me one thing,” he whispered. “If I do make it, will you marry me?”

She forced a noncommittal smile. “Don’t talk, Kevin. Just rest and get well.”

Tears came to his eyes. “Please, Anne. I’m afraid. I can’t face it alone. Please ... I’ll make it if I know that you’ll marry me ... that you’ll always be there.”

“Kevin, you must rest. You’re going to be fine.”

“It’s too late for those children you wanted, Anne, but I’ll give you everything else. I’ll sell the business ... we’ll travel. Just say you’ll marry me and never leave me.”

She smiled. “All right, Kevin. I promise.”

She kept her vigil at his bedside for six long weeks. As he grew stronger, he talked incessantly about their marriage, about the things they would do, and how he would make everything up to her. She grew resigned. Why not marry Kevin? What was she waiting for? She was thirty-five—Good Lord, thirty-five! How did it happen? You felt the same inside, but suddenly you were thirty-five and time was racing on. One year blended into another. So much had happened—and yet so little. She had blown her chance for the great love and for children. But there were other compensations. She was independently wealthy. Her original investments had more than doubled, and Henry had put her in several other successful ventures. Each year Kevin had given her several hundred shares of stock in the company—and the stock was due to split two for one any day. No, money would never be a problem. If she never worked again—and without Kevin’s help—she was a rich woman.

But then, money had never been a problem. Even in the beginning there had been the five thousand in the bank. She had never been like Jennifer ... Jen, who had to send her mother money; Jen, who had to make it. She was very proud of Jennifer’s whirlwind success in Hollywood. She had made five pictures—five beautiful, technicolor pictures, with someone singing for Jennifer. Someone else danced in the long shots, but it was always Jennifer in the closeups. And she was miraculously beautiful. Her name had been coupled with a director and a leading man, and her latest conquest was a producer. But from her letters and phone calls, Anne knew Jennifer was still searching.

Toward the end of his stay in the hospital, Kevin began planning their honeymoon. “You’re sure you won’t mind giving up your work?” he asked anxiously.

“My work?” she laughed. “Kevin, you handed me the whole thing on a silver platter.”

“No, Anne. I started you modeling, but you did the rest. You’re good. You’re an asset to the company.”

“Well, you can take the asset away from the company any time you like. I think both will survive.”

His hand clutched hers. “I love you, Anne. I’ll sell the company ...”

She nodded. “Now you get some rest. Plan our honeymoon while I’m gone.”

He clung to her hand. “Must you go?”

She made her voice light. “I’m still working for you, and there’s a show tonight.”

“Anne ... you know—there won’t be any sex. Not for a long while, maybe never again.”

“Don’t worry about it, Kevin.”

He started to sob. “I’ll lose you, I know I will!” In spite of herself, she felt revulsion. The terrible strength of illness—it robbed a man of his dignity. She patted him gently. “I’ll be with you, Kevin. I promise.”

Kevin was back at his desk in August, strong, vital, with his old “take-charge” power. The fear-ridden days in the oxygen tent were a dim memory. Sure, he had had a little coronary, but it hadn’t gotten him down. He was better than ever. The rest had done him good. And he was going to marry Anne. Of course, being alone frightened him at times. If anything should happen at night ...

“I want to make the best possible deal for the company,” he told Anne. “I’m holding out for twelve million and an honorary chairmanship of the board. As long as the company bears my name, I want to be sure it keeps its class. I figure I can wind up everything by the first of the year, February at the latest. Is that okay? But if you like we can get married right now ...”

She smiled. “We’ve waited this long, let’s do one thing right. I want to get married and go on a honeymoon.”

“February then! That will be the deadline I set for myself. Then marriage and a long honeymoon trip. We’ll go around the world.”

“Really around the world? I mean, not just London, Paris and Rome? But the Orient, India, Greece, Spain?”

“The works.” He looked at her closely. “I noticed you threw in Spain. Okay, we’ll search Spain from top to bottom. We’ll find Neely—I promise you we will.”

She worried about Neely constantly. After the television shambles, Neely had sat out her year of suspension. Then, with another fanfare of publicity, she had been signed to star in a big technicolor picture at a major studio. She was thin, radiant and exuberant, the center of attention. It was a major event—Neely O’Hara’s comeback. But after a few weeks of filming, the usual uneasy rumors began to drift into print. Neely was holding up production ... Neely had a bad back ... Neely had laryngitis. Then came the bombshell—the picture was to be scrapped, at a loss of half a million! Once again Neely was branded unreliable and uncooperative. There were even rumors that she had lost her voice.

Ten days later, with no warning, she had arrived at Anne’s apartment. She had no money, but her lawyers were arranging for the sale of her house—then she’d have a bundle. Anne let her move in, though she dreaded the disrupting influence. Television had forced her into a highly organized way of life. There were certain hours set aside to study scripts, set times for fittings, time put aside for complete rest and a facial before facing the cameras.

Neely’s invasion was cyclonic from the start. The phone kept ringing; newspapermen came in a steady stream, demanding interviews; fans were found prowling around the building. But Anne knew Neely needed her, and it would only be for a few weeks.

But the weeks stretched into months. The apartment was always in a shambles. Three maids quit. Neely broke a lamp and an end table lurching around in a semiconscious state. Anne kept emptying bottles of pills down the drain, but Neely seemed to have an endless source and endless hiding places. When she wasn’t in a drugged sleep she was underfoot, bleary-eyed, carrying around a bottle of Scotch and screaming curses at Hollywood.

It was Kevin who insisted she move. He put her in a hotel suite. She could stay there as long as she wished, as his guest.

When her money for the sale of the house came through, Neely mysteriously checked out of the hotel. A few weeks later she turned up in a Greenwich Village police station, arrested on a charge of disturbing the peace, based on complaints about the loud parties she gave. She had been almost unrecognizable in the newspaper pictures—fat, blotchy, red-eyed, her hair falling into her eyes.

Anne had rushed to her. Neely was holed up in a fashionable building on lower Fifth Avenue, but the apartment looked like a tenement. It was littered with empty whiskey bottles, and most of the furniture was broken, stained or burned from careless cigarettes. The rumpled linen on the bed looked as if it hadn’t been changed since Neely had taken occupancy.

“Lemme come and live with you, Anne,” she mumbled. “I got lotsa money. I just can’t stand being alone. That’s why I always give parties. And look what those slobs have done—this place was gorgeous when I sublet it.” She looked around ruefully. “The lady I got it from is suing me for damages, so I gotta get outta here ...”

“Neely, you’ve got to pull yourself together. I spoke to your agents. You are still a big name—you could do a Broadway show.”

“Nope, I’m unreliable. They’re afraid of me.”

“Not if you straightened out—if you did a show and proved you are reliable.”

“I can’t sing, Anne. I lost it.”

“No one could sing living like this. And you shouldn’t smoke, Neely. You smoke more than I do. Look, why not check into a hospital for a few days—”

“No! That’s what Dr. Gold said. He’s my new headshrinker. Wants me to go to Connecticut to some fancy funny farm. Costs a thousand a month. But I’m not a nut—I’m just unhappy.”

“I agree. I meant a regular hospital—like Mt. Sinai or Doctors. Let them get you off pills, regulate your life—”

“No. Lemme move in with you. I’ll be good. No pills. I swear.” Anne had heard this oath before, but she promised to think about it. When she left she called Neely’s doctor. He was deeply concerned. He agreed a few weeks in a hospital might help, but it wasn’t the solution. Neely needed drastic psychiatric help.

That night Neely disappeared. Perhaps she feared commitment. No one knew. She had over a hundred thousand dollars, but the way she was spending it even this sum couldn’t last long. She turned up in London, and the British press gave her a front-page reception and an enthusiastic welcome. She attended parties and basked in acclaim. She was booked into the Palladium, but at the last minute canceled out. Then, suddenly, there were stories of her exploits in Spain. She seemed to have settled there. She made a picture—the advance publicity was excellent, but it was never released—and after a time she gradually disappeared from the news. Anne’s letters were returned stamped “address unknown”—Neely seemed to have vanished.

Jennifer

1960

Jennifer arrived in New York late in November, without publicity. Her call came as a complete surprise to Anne.

“I’ve got to see you,” she said eagerly. “I’m at the Sherry.”

“I’ll come right over. Is anything wrong?”

“No, everything’s perfect—divine! Anne, I read that Kevin was selling the company. When is the marriage date?”

“We’re trying for February fifteenth.”

“Good. Maybe we can have a double celebration.”

“Oh sure, we’ll—What? Jen, what did you say?”

“Come on over. I’m talking on a hotel wire, remember?”

Jennifer was waiting impatiently when Anne arrived. “I’ve got sandwiches and Cokes all set up. We can have a real old-fashioned gab session. Have you got time?”

“The whole afternoon. Jen, who is he? Tell me!”

Jennifer’s eyes were shining. “Oh, Anne, I’m so happy! I don’t even care that I’m going to be forty next Friday. I still get the curse, so I can still have babies, and ... well, being forty doesn’t matter now.”

Forty! The word hit Anne with a sudden jolt. Jennifer forty! She looked marvelous. She recalled how she had thought Helen Lawson old at forty, and her own mother—dried out at forty-two. But Jennifer still had the incredible figure and the firm skin. She looked twenty-five.

“Remember when I attended the big Republican rally in Washington—right before the convention?” Jennifer asked.

Anne laughed. “Remember it! Kevin swears you’re responsible for the Democrats getting in.”

Jennifer grinned. “Well, it was a studio publicity thing. I was willing to do anything for them after they got me my release from Claude. It cost them plenty, but they did it to make me happy.” She shuddered. “I’d had it with his dictating to me. I was nothing but a saleable piece of flesh to him. Not that the studio doesn’t regard me the same way, but at least they’re more delicate about it. They even pretend I have talent.” She laughed outright.

“Now, Jen—you were excellent in your last picture.”

“I thought I wasn’t too bad. It was my first serious role. But the picture’s dying everywhere.”

“That doesn’t mean a thing. The biggest stars come up with a loser now and then. You were listed number three at the box office in last month’s polls.”

Jennifer shrugged. “Listen, if I hadn’t met him, I’d be in a state of shock. The studio is hysterical about the picture laying an egg. They’re rushing to get top writers for my new picture ... the top director ...” She shrugged. “But I couldn’t care less. This morning I found two new lines under my eyes and even that didn’t bother me.”

“Who is he?” Anne demanded.

Jennifer pushed away her untouched sandwich and sipped at her Coke. “Well, you remember the shindig in Washington? He was there. We met at all the cocktail parties. He was always nice, but he didn’t fall all over me like everyone else did. He was remote, polite, but ...”

Anne was exasperated. “Jen, who?”

Jennifer’s eyes narrowed. “Winston Adams.” She waited for Anne’s reaction.

Anne almost exploded. “You mean the senator?”

Jennifer nodded.

“You ... and Winston Adams!”

Jennifer leaped up and spun around the room. “Yes! Winston Adams. Senior senator, Social Register, millionaire—comes from generations of millionaires. But Anne, if he didn’t have a dime, I wouldn’t care. I love him.”

Anne sat back. Winston Adams! He was about fifty—attractive, brilliant and immensely popular. “But Jen, I heard he was the Republicans’ big white hope, that they’re grooming him for—”

Jennifer nodded. “They are. And he’s willing to give it all up for me.”

“How did it happen?”

Jennifer’s eyes grew soft. “Well, like I said, we met I met dozens of senators and had my picture taken with all of them—you’d be surprised how obliging some of those senators can be. They’re bigger hams than actors. Except Winston Adams—he refused to be photographed with me.”

“Good for him!” Anne said. “That’s one way of attracting your attention.”

Jennifer shook her head. “He meant it. On the day before I left, when all the hoopla was over, he phoned me. He said he wanted to talk to me—asked me to dinner. I went to his apartment that night. I thought maybe it was a big party, but it was just us.”

“He must be a democrat at heart,” Anne said, smiling.

“No, nothing happened. I mean, no sex—he didn’t even try. He had a servant who was there all the time—not hovering over us, but you knew he was there. He explained that he hadn’t meant to be rude in refusing to pose, but that he just didn’t go for that kind of thing. Then we talked. He asked me a lot of questions, and he actually listened to me. We talked about Paris. He went to the Sorbonne when he was young, and he wanted to know how Paris had changed since the war.”

“Why have you kept it such a secret?” Anne demanded. “He’s not married.”

Jennifer grinned happily. “It’s not going to be a secret any longer. Last week marked two years since the death of his wife. He felt it wouldn’t have looked proper until now.”

“Oh, that’s right. They were very devoted.”

“Only on the outside. It was one of those arranged marriages, like you would have had if you had stayed in Lawrenceville. Both from good snooty families with money. Oh, he thought he loved her at the time. But she was the frigid type—hated sex. But that’s not the important thing to him with me,” she said quickly. “He went with me for two months without even trying. We’d sneak and meet in out-of-the-way places—Kansas City, Chicago ... I’d wear a black wig. Then he came to California for a week—and we did it! Anne, he’s divine. He’s so gentle. He loves me, but for me! He was stunned when he saw my boobs—he had always thought they were padded! He had never even seen any of my foreign films. Anne, he’s the first man who ever fell for me, not just my body. And he was so shy. At first he was even afraid to touch my boobs. But I’ve taught him, and now—wow!”

“He’s discovered sex,” Anne said with a smile.

“Discovered it—he acts like he invented it. But don’t you see, I don’t mind it this way, because he was originally attracted to me without it. And Anne, he wants children. His wife was the flat-chested, horsey type from Maryland, and she never had any.”

“But Jen, he’s not really young—and what makes you so sure you’ll conceive just like that?”

“Well, I’ve had seven abortions. My insides are ready, willing and able all the time. And when I told Win I wanted to get out of pictures and have children he was so happy he cried. He actually cried, Anne. He felt life had passed him up on all the things he really wanted—a girl he could love, children. That’s why he buried himself in his work. He doesn’t give a damn if I louse up his career. He says the Republicans won’t get a President in office for at least eight years, and they can’t fire him from being a senator just because he marries a movie star. He just wants what I want—a home and kids.”

“Does Winston know your real age?”

Jennifer nodded happily. “He was delighted. Of course, I didn’t tell him about the little tucks behind my ears. I mean, let’s not scare the man. He’s liable to think I’m something out of Shangri-La. But he was glad I wasn’t in my twenties. He thought I’d think he was too old. And once when I visited him on his farm, I sat around all weekend in pigtails and no makeup and he said I was gorgeous. Oh, Anne—it’s all so wonderful. I’m going back to the Coast next week to drop the bomb. I’ll finish the next picture—they’ve already shot the exteriors and fitted the costumes—but that’s it! Let them scream. So I’ll never work again, who cares? I’m through with the whole scene.”

“When will you get married?”

“Well, starting tonight we’re going out publicly. We’re going to the theatre, then to a supper party at ’21’ with Senator Belson and his wife. We’ll probably make all the papers tomorrow, and Win will shyly admit we’re engaged.”

Anne smiled. “I’ll probably see you tonight. We’re going to ’21’ too. It’s a late dinner, so we’ll probably be there when you arrive. This will be one of those long dreary ones, with some of the people who are buying Kevin’s company.”

Jennifer impulsively pressed Anne’s hand. “Oh, girl friend, isn’t it wonderful! We’ve both wound up at the top, with success, security and a man we love and respect.”

Anne smiled, but she felt the familiar weight descending.

When she saw them at “21” that night, Jennifer was glowing, and she had to admit that Senator Winston Adams was an imposing-looking man. He was tall, with clipped steel-gray hair and a flat stomach that suggested daily workouts at the athletic club. Jennifer stopped at their table. Introductions were exchanged, and the Senator went out of his way to be gracious. “I feel as if I know you,” he said to Anne. “I’ve seen you so often on television—and of course, Jennifer talks about you constantly.”

She watched Jennifer all evening. Jennifer’s eyes never left the Senator’s face. They were adoring, the eyes of a girl genuinely in love. Anne envied her. She looked at Kevin. Thank God he had recovered. He was so good and kind. Oh, God, why couldn’t she feel anything for him? If she had, she would have been married to him ages ago. Look how she had pestered Lyon, even offered to support him. But with Lyon there was more to it than just sex. She had wanted to be close to him every second, to crawl inside his thoughts ... oh, God, what am I doing, she thought. There is no Lyon. Like Henry says, I’m in love with an image ...

Jennifer was on all the front pages the following day. And Senator Winston Adams acknowledged they would marry early in 1961. In a flurry of ecstasy, excitement and headlines, she returned to the Coast to make her final picture.

1961

Jennifer returned to New York the first week in January. Senator Adams was detained in Washington for a few days, and Anne went with her as she bought her trousseau.

“Everything must be different,” she insisted. “Striking, but—you know—subdued. You’ve got to help me, Anne.”

They were in the fitting room at Bergdorf’s when Jennifer suddenly leaned against the wall. “Anne ... have you an aspirin?”

She was ashen and the pupils of her eyes were dilated. The fitter rushed for the aspirin. Jennifer sat down. “Stop looking so terrified, Anne.” She managed a smile. “It’s the curse. It came early, from all the excitement, I guess. I get stabbing pains.”

Anne relaxed. “You scared me to death.”

Jennifer lit a cigarette. “It’s passed now. But that pain—it was a real bonecrusher. I guess that’s what labor feels like. If this is a sample, I’m going to find a nice painless doctor when I have my babies.”

The fitter returned with the aspirin and the head saleslady came rushing in, visibly concerned.

“I go through it too,” the woman said. “I crawl up walls. Thank God it only comes once a month.”

“You’re lucky,” Jennifer said. “Lately I’ve been getting it every two or three weeks.”

The salesgirl shook her head. “It’s better than my girl friend. She’s beginning to go through the change. She skips whole months and worries herself sick.”

Jennifer selected three dresses. The salesgirl thanked her, got her autograph for her niece and wished her luck. Later, when they were sitting at the Palm Court having a drink, Anne said casually, “By the way, Jen, when was the last time you had a checkup?”

Jennifer was thoughtful. “Let’s see, the last abortion was in Sweden—it’s legal there—that was four years ago. The doctor said I was sound as a rock.”

“Well, it wouldn’t hurt you to check. My doctor is excellent.” Jennifer nodded. “Maybe I will.”

******

Dr. Galens was calm and easy as he made out her card. The internal examination was over; she was dressed and seated across the desk from him. “How long has this been going on?” he asked.

“A few months. I wouldn’t even have thought about it, but Anne’s been on my neck. And then, when the curse continued—it’s been ten days. I’m getting married next week, so I wanted to be sure everything was in order. After all, I intend to start having babies right away.”

He nodded. “Is the Senator in town now?”

“No, he’s in Washington. He’ll be here next week.”

“Well, then suppose you check into the hospital tonight.”

“Tonight?” Jennifer crushed out her cigarette. “Is anything wrong?”

“Absolutely nothing. If you weren’t planning on getting married next week, I’d say let’s wait and watch your next period. You have polyps in your uterus. It’s very common. You go in for tonight, have a scraping tomorrow and leave the hospital the following day. You will stain for a few days, but if you go in now you’ll be fine for your wedding day.”

Alarmed, Anne checked with Dr. Galens. He was hiding nothing from Jennifer. It was a simple “D and C.” She helped Jennifer pack a bag and went along to the hospital with her.

Anne sat in the empty hospital room after Jennifer was taken up. She was glad it was nothing serious—Jennifer wanted a baby so much. And she deserved one. Funny ... as close as they were, Jen had never explained why she had gotten rid of Tony’s baby.

Dr. Galens was down in an hour. Anne sensed instantly that something was wrong.

“She’s sleeping off the anesthesia,” he said.

“What is it?” Anne demanded. “I can tell—something’s wrong. It wasn’t just polyps.”

“It was just polyps—exactly as I thought. There’s nothing wrong with her insides,” he said. “But while the anesthetist was checking on her heartbeat, he found a lump in her breast the size of a walnut. She must have known about it.”

Anne felt weak. “But lots of lumps mean nothing. I mean—some are only cysts, aren’t they?”

“I took the lump out,” he said quietly. “It was a simple, tiny incision that wouldn’t leave a noticeable scar. I had an immediate biopsy performed. Anne, it’s malignant. She must go up tomorrow and have the breast removed.”

Anne went cold with horror. Oh, God, why Jennifer? And why now? She felt tears running down her face. “You tell her,” she sobbed. “I can’t!”

******

Jennifer opened her eyes slowly, struggling to wake. It was over. She smiled at the hazy figure of the nurse beside her. “Is everything all right?”

“Here’s Doctor Galens now,” the nurse said brightly.

He touched her forehead gently. “Coming out of it?”

“Mmmm ... tell me, it was just as you thought—polyps—wasn’t it?”

“Yes, everything is fine in that department. Jennifer, why didn’t you tell me you had a lump in your breast?”

Instinctively her hand reached to her breast. She felt the small bandage.

“I took out the lump. How long have you had it?”

“Dunno ...” She was getting drowsy again. “ ’Bout a year ... maybe longer.”

“You go back to sleep. We’ll talk about it later.”

Through the haze of anesthesia she felt the fear. She reached out and grabbed his arm. “Talk about what later?”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to bring you up here again tomorrow ... to do a little more cutting.”

“Cutting? Like what?”

“We’re going to have to perform a mastectomy. Dr. Richards will do it. He’s one of our top breast surgeons.”

“What’s a mast—what you said?”

“We have to remove your breast, Jennifer. That lump was malignant.”

She struggled to sit up. “No! Never! Oh, God—no!” She fell back, her head spinning. Something was shot into her arm.

She fell asleep, fitfully, waking some time later and clutching at the nurse, pleading, “It was a dream, wasn’t it? I just dreamed it under gas, didn’t I—what he said about my breast? Tell me ...”

“Now, now ... relax,” the nurse said softly.

She saw sympathy on the woman’s face. It was no dream. Oh, God, it was true!

******

Anne had rushed to Kevin’s office and sobbed out the story. He had listened in silence, then asked. “Did Dr. Galens say the prognosis looked hopeful?”

Anne stared at him impatiently. “Hopeful? Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?”

“I heard everything. She must lose her breast. It’s dreadful, but it’s not the end of the world. Anne, do you know how many women live long and happy lives after successful breast surgery? The point is to catch it in time.”

She looked at him gratefully. That was Kevin. Always taking hold, finding the hopeful side of everything. He got Dr. Galens on the phone. The doctor said he had every reason to believe the prognosis would be good. Dr. Richards had agreed. It was a small tumor, and the survival rate in breast surgery was high. If there was no metastasis, the prognosis would be excellent—but that could not be determined until the breast was removed and the lymph glands examined.

Somewhat reassured and calmed by Kevin’s matter-of-fact reaction, Anne returned to the hospital. Jennifer was wide awake and oddly emotionless. She reached out and clutched Anne’s hand. “Dr. Galens called Win,” she whispered. “He’s flying here immediately.”

“Did he tell him?” Anne asked.

Jennifer shook her head. “I told him not to say a word. I feel I should be the one to tell him.” She smiled weakly at the nurse. “I’m all right Would you leave me alone with my friend?”

“Don’t let her drink any fluids for at least two hours,” the nurse said. “Do you want a special nurse ordered for tonight?”

“No, the operation isn’t until tomorrow and Dr. Galens ordered round-the-clock nurses starting then. I’m fine—please just leave us alone.” She watched the nurse leave—then she jumped out of bed.

“What are you doing?” Anne asked, alarmed.

“I’m getting out of here—right now!”

Anne seized her arm. “Jennifer, are you crazy?”

“Look, they’re not going to disfigure me. How could Win want to come near me!”

“You said yourself he fell in love with you, not your breasts. Now don’t be ridiculous.”

But Jennifer was at the closet, pulling out her clothes. “I’m getting out of here. I’ll take the chance. He got the cancer out—he’s not taking off my breast!”

“Jennifer—it’s the only way they can be sure. It might have spread to another part of the breast.”

“I don’t care! It’s bad enough that I won’t be able to give Win any children, but I won’t come to him deformed.”

“It could be suicide if you leave. Do you think that’s fair to Win? To marry him and perhaps a year later put him through this? His last wife was sick. And what has this got to do with having a baby? You can still have children. Dr. Galens said you were fine inside.”

“But I mustn’t get pregnant. Dr. Galens said so. A pregnancy might stir up some malignancy in the ovaries. There’s some direct connection with the breast and ovaries. In fact, he said after the operation he may give me some X-ray treatment on my ovaries to insure sterility! What would I have to offer Win? No children, a maimed body ...”

“You offer him you! That’s all he really wants. Look—you said you were sick of living for your body. Well, prove it. And if you want children you can adopt them.”

Slowly Jennifer climbed back into bed.

Anne rushed on. “No one need ever know—just you and Win. He’ll love you and won’t mind about the babies. I’m positive of that. And if you adopt a child it will be the same as your own. And the operation will be nothing. Honest, Jen, with the pain killers today—and with the wonderful falsies you can buy—Jen, it’s not the end of the world.”

Jennifer stared at the ceiling. “You know, it’s funny. All my life, the word cancer meant death, terror, something so horrible I’d cringe. And now I have it. And the funny part is, I’m not the least bit frightened of the cancer itself—even if it turns out to be a death sentence. It’s just what it’ll do to my life with Win—not being able to give him children. And the disfigurement.”

“It won’t show, Jen. Some people have automobile accidents, have their faces disfigured. Some women are naturally flat-chested, and they manage. You’re the one who’s been saying all along you didn’t want to live for your body. Well, have some guts, some belief in yourself—start proving it. And start believing in Win.”

Jennifer smiled faintly. “Okay, then I’d better get out of this hospital gown. And get me my makeup. I want to look my best when I tell him.” She sat up and combed her hair. As she slipped into the filmy nightgown, she stared down at the breast with the small bandage. “Good-by, Sam,” she said. “You don’t know it, but you aren’t going to be around much longer.”

Kevin joined Anne, and they were both there when Winston Adams arrived at seven. Anne had arranged the lights. Jennifer looked every inch the movie star, and she was almost cheerful. After a brief exchange of greetings, Kevin and Anne left.

The moment they had gone, Winston dashed to the bed and took Jennifer in his arms. “God, I almost died of fear. The doctor was so strange on the phone—said you needed an operation, hinted that the wedding might have to be postponed. And now, to see you looking so beautiful ... what kind of an operation, darling?”

She looked at him closely. “It’s pretty drastic, Win. I’ll be scarred and won’t be able to have any children ... and I’ll be—”

“Hush . . . not a word.” He looked at her with adoration. “Shall I tell you something? I was going along with the whole thing because of you. The children, I mean. At my age, I really didn’t care one way or another. But I wanted to please you. You seemed to want it so much, so I pretended it was important to me. All I care about is you—can’t you understand—”

She held him close. “Oh, Win!” Tears of relief ran down her face.

He stroked her hair. “You weren’t afraid you’d lose me? Oh, my beautiful girl—you’ll never lose me. Don’t you realize I’m just beginning to live because of you?” He kissed her breasts through the filmy nightgown. “You’re all I want—not babies, you. you’re the only woman who ever stirred anything in me. God, Jennifer, before I knew you I often wondered if something wasn’t lacking in me. I blamed it on Eleanor. Poor Eleanor—it wasn’t her fault. She roused nothing within me, and I probably left her cold, too. But with you ... at first, when we met, I turned away from you—remember?”

She nodded and stroked his head as he lay against her breasts. He kissed the firm skin of her neck. “But you changed me, made me realize I wasn’t running from you, that I was just afraid, running from myself. And the moment you walked into my apartment, I knew. I knew somehow everything would be different. Jennifer, you taught me how to love. I could never give that up.” He caressed her breasts. “These are my babies,” he said softly. “These are the only children I want, to lay my face against their perfection each night ...” He stopped as his finger stumbled against the small bandage. “What’s this? What have they done to one of my babies?”

Her smile was frozen. “It’s nothing ... I had a small cyst ...”

“There won’t be a scar!” He was genuinely horrified.

“No, Winston—they drew it out with a needle. No scar.”

“That’s all that matters. Let them take out your ovaries—I couldn’t care less. That’s not you—I’ve never met your ovaries. But as long as they never harm my babies ...” He caressed her breasts again. “Why did that doctor sound so grim when he phoned? Wouldn’t tell me a thing—just told me to come quickly.”

“He—he knew I wanted children—and ...”

“Why didn’t he just say you needed a hysterectomy?” He shook his head. “Those doctors—they’re all crepe hangers. But I’m glad I came. Now I can go back thinking of holding you in my arms.” He held her close. “I want to hold this memory. I won’t be able to return until Friday.” Then he wrote down a number. “Have Anne call me the moment the operation is over. If I’m not there, they’ll reach me.”

He stopped at the door and looked at her, his eyes roving over her as though he had never really seen her before. “I love you, Jennifer ... only you—you believe that, don’t you?”

She smiled. “Yes, Win. I know ...”

For a long while after he had gone, the smile remained frozen on her face.

Dr. Galens stopped in at midnight. “We’ll go up at eight in the morning,” he said cheerfully. “And Jennifer—it’s going to be all right.”

She smiled. “You bet it will.” It was three in the morning when she slipped out of bed. She opened her door quietly. The hospital corridor was dimly lit, but she saw the nurse near the elevator. She closed the door and dressed quietly.

Thank God she had worn slacks and a trench coat—that had been to fool the photographers. She took a bandana and tied it over her hair. Then she tiptoed into the hall. She crept against the wall, then hid herself in an arch that held the water cooler. The nurse on duty was sitting under a bright light, writing in her book. There was no way to get to the elevator without passing her. She had to stand there and pray that sometime during the night the nurse would leave her post. She also had to pray that no one discovered her hiding there.

The large clock ticked loudly on and on, while the nurse wrote endlessly in her book. Sweat ran down her neck. She felt waves of heat, as if she were near a furnace. Damn—it was a radiator. Suddenly a buzzer sounded. Oh, thank God! A patient was ringing. But the nurse continued to write. Was she deaf? The buzzer rang again, seeming more insistent this time. “Go answer it!” Jennifer screamed inwardly. As if taking a cue, the buzzer rang again, and kept ringing. The nurse rose lethargically, looked at the room number the arrow pointed to and headed down the hall.

Jennifer watched her disappear into a room, then ran swiftly to the elevator. No—it might take too long in coming and make too much noise. The stairway ... she ran down eight flights of stairs. When she reached the lobby, she was out of breath. She looked around warily. No one paid any attention to her. The elevator man was smoking, talking to the cashier. She ran out into the street and walked a few blocks before hailing a cab. She reached her hotel at four in the morning.

When the nurse found her room empty the following morning she notified Dr. Galens, and he called Jennifer’s hotel immediately. When her room failed to answer, he had the assistant manager open the door.

She was lying on the bed, in her most beautiful dress and full stage makeup, clutching an empty bottle of sleeping pills. There were two notes. Anne’s read:

Anne—No embalmer could make me up as well as I do myself. Thank God for the dolls. Sorry I couldn’t stick around for your wedding. I love you.

Jen

The note to Winston Adams said:

Dear Win—I had to leave—to save your babies. Thanks for making it all almost come true.

Jennifer

******

Senator Adams offered no explanation about the note. When cornered by the press he muttered a terse “No comment.” Anne was just as tight-lipped. Dr. Galens refused to discuss the nature of Jennifer’s ailment. She had gone through a minor operation the previous day, and there was nothing he could add.

The funeral was a nightmare. Frenzied mobs clustered outside the church, blocking traffic on Fifth Avenue. Mounted police were called to enforce order and to unsnarl crosstown traffic. Newspapers ran Jennifer’s life story, Anne’s picture made the front pages—and to complicate the frantic confusion, Jennifer’s mother arrived, eagerly giving out the Cinderella story to every attentive reporter, sobbing on cue, and demanding an itemized account of all of Jennifer’s clothes, furs and jewelry.

Anne might have been able to handle Jennifer’s mother, but the appearance of Claude Chardot caused new complications. He produced a will, and while Henry Bellamy frantically searched for a later will, proclaimed himself the rightful heir. Then, to climax things, Neely arrived.

She was frantic that she had missed the funeral. She had been in Spain. She moved in with Anne and took over the spotlight. The newspaper stories eased away from Jennifer and played up Neely, who was painfully thin and glamorous. She was eager to work—but of course not until she got over this awful thing about Jennifer.

Somehow Anne managed to get through her appearances on television. She was taping the commercials now, and the new owners of the company were pleading with her to stay on at a large increase in salary. Her involvement in the publicity about Jennifer had increased her name value. Jennifer’s tragedy had postponed her own wedding. April was now the new date.

It took three weeks for the publicity to ease off. Then, after two days of quiet, two days without any mention of Jennifer in the papers, violent new headlines erupted. Senator Winston Adams had resigned from office. He was suffering a mild breakdown and intended to travel for a year.

Jennifer’s suicide was revived amidst new speculations. Dr. Galens was harassed. Yes, he had told the Senator the nature of Jennifer’s illness—after all, as her fiancé he had a right to the facts. But the facts were for the Senator, not the press. Anne taped several commercials and fled to Palm Beach with Kevin. It was one of the nicest weeks she had known in years. And she had also been able to avoid the hysteria of Neely’s first television appearance. Neely’s new agent had booked her on a top variety show as the guest star, at a fantastic fee. It was to be taped, so Neely felt secure.

Anne watched the show in Palm Beach. Neely was superb. Everything caught fire—her voice was perfect and she glowed, with eyes like large coals. Neely was no longer a child, but the impish quality was still there. The trembling lip, the nervous laugh, the girlish desire to please—all this came through. It seemed incredible, but she was better than ever. Once again there were shouts of “genius” ... ”a living legend.” It was a spectacular comeback. She signed for a picture in Hollywood.

Neely was back on top.

Neely

1961

Neely carelessly tossed things into a bag. “I’ll get new clothes out there,” she told Anne. “Geez, I’ve left most of my stuff in Spain—now can I leave some with you?”

“I’ll probably be married before you return, Neely, and I’m going around the world. I might sublet the apartment.”

“Well, I guess I’ll take this along. I’m like a gypsy, all spread out. But it’s good this happened. I was just about busted. Hey, what happened to Jennifer’s money?”

“It will all go to her mother. That Paris will was a phony—Henry found some peculiarities in it. Claude will get fifty per cent on any reruns of her pictures made while she was still under contract to him. But the rest goes to her mother. That’s mostly jewelry and furs. And they’re reissuing her pictures. But there wasn’t any real money.”

Neely shrugged. “Listen, for a girl with no talent, she lived pretty good. Why do you think she did it? The Dutch act, I mean.”

“I’ve told you, Neely, I really don’t know.”

“Well, I’ve figured it out. I don’t think she had anything wrong with her like some of the rumors—some people think it was TB and I even heard a crazy rumor of incurable cancer. I think the real reason she took a powder was because she was losing her looks.”

“That’s ridiculous! Jennifer was more beautiful than ever.”

“But her last picture was a bomb. Oh, this new one will make money because of the publicity, but I heard that wasn’t too hot either. She was slipping, all right.”

“Neely, she was retiring. She was going to get married.”

“Yeah, I read all that jazz in Spain, how she suddenly found true love and all. But come on—the Senator was no Rock Hudson. Jen got pretty bored sitting around just being married to Tony, and he was young and gorgeous. Nope, I think she just couldn’t face it. She was getting older, and her looks had to go soon, and she couldn’t settle for just the Senator. So she took a powder. Now me, I never have to worry. I have talent, and fat or thin it doesn’t matter. Look at Helen Lawson. She wasn’t like me, of course—it was mechanics with her, and now that her voice is gone she’s going to the Coast to play a character role in some television series. But even with her voice gone she’ll survive, because she had a talent.”

“Helen will survive,” Anne said slowly, “because she has no real emotions. Any unhappiness she has is like a child’s unhappiness. It can be erased with a new toy. But any voice—even yours, Neely—must be taken care of.”

“No, my voice comes from inside, from the way I feel things. And I’ve learned something—guys will leave you, your looks will go, your kids will grow up and everything you thought was great will go sour. All you can really count on is yourself and your talent.”

******

Three weeks later Neely returned. She was in a state of near collapse. “Anne—my voice—on the third day of recording, it went! I can’t sing!”

Anne tried to calm her. There were wonderful throat men ... things like this happened to singers all the time.

“No, I’m through,” Neely wailed. “I was examined by every doctor. I haven’t even got a nodule. They say it’s nerves, but it’s not. God is punishing me for talking about Jen the way I did. And they had to scrap the picture. I’m through for good—they’ll never touch me out there.”

“God doesn’t work that way,” Anne said soothingly. “If anyone is punishing you, you’re doing it to yourself.”

“Oh sure, that’s what my last headshrinker said—that I have a self-destructive urge and that I’m always punishing myself for some imaginary guilt. That’s a lot of shit! I’ve never done anything wrong.”

Neely found a new psychiatrist. Dr. Massinger was highly recommended. Anne insisted that Neely live with her. She was positive that intensive therapy and a friend’s support would pull Neely out of it. She had always snapped back before.

And Neely tried. She tried to be neat, and she didn’t clutter the apartment. But she never slept. She went out with musicians, came home and sat in the living room until dawn, gulping Seconals and listening to her old records.

One morning, Anne awakened and found Neely huddled in the living room with tears running down her face. “I’m through, Anne. I tried to sing with my records, and I can’t make it.”

“But Dr. Massinger says it’s nerves. Your voice will come back, Neely.”

“He said Hollywood gave me nerves. That’s why I tried tonight, for the first time, here, alone, with no cameras and no Hollywood. Anne, my throat closed. I can’t sing.”

“It’s only been a few weeks, Neely—give it time.”

Neely stood up. “Maybe.” She wandered into the bathroom and swallowed a few pills. “Got some Scotch, Anne? The pills won’t work without it.”

Anne handed her a bottle. It was going to be one of those days, with Neely bombed out on pills. It was Sunday, and she had planned to stay in. She had invited Kevin to dinner and she had meant to cook her one dish, a crabmeat casserole. But now Neely would sleep all day.

She phoned Kevin and arranged to spend the day at his place. Later they could go down to Lüchow’s for dinner.

Neely heard the door close. She wasn’t asleep, but it had been easier to pretend to sleep. Anne got so nervous when she drank and took pills—was always afraid she’d set herself on fire or something. Neely sat up and poured herself another stiff drink. She lit a cigarette. Christ, it was the last one. And you could be sure Anne had stashed all the rest away, just for safety. Well, she’d fall asleep soon.

She refilled her glass, then realized she was drinking too fast. Better sip it, with a few more pills. She reached under her pillow—she had hidden three red dolls there. She swallowed them and sipped the Scotch slowly. The pills were finally working—she felt lethargic. But she couldn’t sleep. She refilled her glass. Damn, the bottle was nearly empty. And no cigarettes. Well, maybe a few more dolls. But she had taken so many—and that could be dangerous. Dr. Massinger had warned her that one day her tolerance might not be as great as usual. So what! If her talent was gone, why not? What was there to hang around for? She only had ten thousand dollars left. Geez, no—there had been ten thousand when she left the Coast, but she had sent a check for the twins’ school—that was twelve hundred—and then twenty-five a day to the headshrinker for three weeks, and her trip in was a few hundred. And she had been writing checks for cash right and left! Maybe there was only five thousand left. How long could that last? And she couldn’t stay with Anne forever—Anne was getting married next month. Geez, where was she gonna get money? The house was gone—no insurance ... maybe she should just swallow the rest of the bottle. Ted would have to take care of the kids, but they didn’t really care about her—when she saw them on the Coast it was just “gimme, get me, buy me.”

There was no one who cared if she lived or died. No one cared about her. Maybe God did, if there was a God.

“Hey, God, are you really up there?” she said. “Are you a big white-haired man with a beard? Do you understand me? Tell me, what went wrong? I never asked for too much. Geez, all I wanted was an apartment and a guy to love me. I tried—why did you fuck it up all the time? Why in hell did you give me a voice if you didn’t want me to be great? Why did you take it away?” She poured the last of the Scotch and dropped the bottle on the floor. “Hey, Jen—are you up there? I know you’re not flying around with big wings or any of that jazz, but if there is another life and you are somewhere, then maybe you can hear me. Did you feel like this? Geez, I’d love to be with you ... it’s got to be better than this. What’s here for me? Another day, another night to get through—go to Jilly’s with guys who are nothing, who want to be seen with me while I sign the tabs.”

She drained the glass. “Geez, I’m thirty-two ... that’s not young any more. There’s got to be some kind of a crazy heaven ... not the jazz with harps and angels, but maybe like Earth without problems. Sure, it’s got to be. After all, look at all the bright people who believe, like the President and Clare Booth Luce. Maybe I should become a Catholic or something. I guess I was born one, but I never got to go to church. But there has to be a heaven, Jen, because look at all those babies who got killed by Hitler. And look at all the people born deaf and blind like Helen Keller. If there wasn’t something after, then it wouldn’t be fair. Why should a nice lady like Helen Keller never be able to see or hear and someone like you have everything if it wasn’t gonna be evened up later on. Sure, there’s a heaven. Look at my sister, living with that dope Charlie. Why should I be so successful and my sister be stuck in Astoria with nothing if there isn’t a heaven later on? Sure. Hey, Jen, does it hurt before you die? Were you scared? Stay with me, Jen ... I’m gonna get some more pills—I’m gonna join you.”

She ran into the bathroom. She had hidden the bottle behind the bath salts. Only six left! She swallowed them quickly. Six wouldn’t do it, though. Maybe aspirin? Maybe a whole bottle of aspirin on top of the pills? Shit! Only five aspirin left. She swallowed them. No more Scotch, but there was some bourbon Anne kept in the bar for Kevin. That on top of the Scotch ... She started out of the bathroom, lurched—and the glass she was carrying crashed to the tile floor. Oh, Geez ... Anne got so mad when she broke things. She stopped to pick up the fragments. It was just a bar glass, but knowing Anne, it was probably crystal or something. She picked up a long sliver. Boy, this would do it—one slash across the wrist and she’d have a funeral like Jennifer. Would they fight over her too? Would Ted Casablanca demand she be buried out there, or would her half-assed sister come to life and demand to take over? Geez, imagine spending the rest of your life in some stinking cemetery in Astoria. Anne would fight for dignity, but she wanted the biggest funeral ever ...

even bigger than Jennifer’s. Well, nothing could be bigger than that. Okay, as big as Jennifer’s. But what if there was no heaven or God? Then she’d be dead, but she couldn’t enjoy it. But—she held the sliver—if she were almost dead, there would be the same fuss. Like before in Hollywood ... maybe they’d even plead with her to come back, and everyone would be sorry. Then, if she wasn’t nervous, maybe she could sing, and everything would be wonderful again ...

“Well, let’s get some bourbon first,” she said, wobbling to the bar. She found the bottle and a glass and poured a stiff drink. Still holding the sliver of glass, she made her way back to the bedroom. She got into bed, took a deep swallow of the bourbon, then studied her wrist. If she cut the side—not the big vein, because that could really kill you, but just a little nick on the side . . . just enough to bleed. She dug the glass in deep—make it about one inch wide, but not over the main vein—good, the blood was coming. She lay back and watched it ooze. Geez, it was a lot of blood and really coming fast. Hey! Maybe she really cut something important! Geez, it wouldn’t stop! She picked up the phone. Where in hell was Anne? The blood was coming faster, and now those goddam pills were working. It was the bourbon that was doing it ...

She dialed Operator. An impersonal voice answered. “I’m Neely O’Hara,” she mumbled. “I’m dying ...”

“What is your number?” the operator asked.

“My number?” She looked down at the phone. Everything was getting fuzzy. “I don’t know ... it’s unlisted ... I can’t remember. Please help. I cut my wrist ... the blood ...”

“Your address?”

“East Sixty-second Street near Park. Apartment belongs to Anne Welles ...”

“The television star?” The operator was no longer impersonal.

“Sure ... sure ...” Neely let the receiver fall and her eyes began to close. She forced them open. God, she had ruined Anne’s sheets. Her arm was dangling lifelessly over the side of the bed and the blood was spotting Anne’s gold carpet. Geez, Anne would never let her stay here again. “Please, operator, hurry ...” All that blood, and it was still coming ... but she wasn’t going to die. You can’t die if you can think this clearly ... I’m sleepy ... not dying . . . just sleepy ... damn the dolls ... of all times, now they have to work. . . .

******

Neely opened her eyes and closed them quickly. It smelled like a hospital. That meant she was alive! She began to remember. The bells, the ambulance ... she opened her eyes again. Anne was sitting across the room with Kevin. Anne sprang up. “Oh, Neely, you’re awake! Thank God!”

Neely smiled weakly. “I’m sorry about the apartment.”

“Forget it.”

“Where am I?”

“At Park North Hospital.”

Neely wrinkled her nose. “Why not Doctors? I hear that’s divine.”

Kevin crossed the room. “Listen, young lady, you’re damned lucky to be here. Do you know where they were taking you when we arrived at the apartment? Bellevue!”

Neely struggled to sit up. “Oh, Geez, that’s all I’d need.”

“It’s lucky we decided to come back. Anne wanted to look in on you. We found the ambulance and the police. They were taking you to Bellevue. It’s a law—all attempted suicides have to go to Bellevue and stay there for a period of observation.”

“Geez!”

“It was Kevin who saved the day,” Anne said. “He pointed to the broken glass and insisted it was an accident.”

Kevin frowned. “I had to spread around a lot of twenty-dollar bills to make them see it my way. And we had no time to pick hospitals—you were pretty far gone, and this was nearest.”

“It wasn’t really suicide,” Neely said.

“Well, it will do until the real thing comes along,” Anne said.

“Did I make the papers?”

“Front page.” Anne pulled a chair up to Neely’s bed. “Neely, we’ve got to do something about your life.”

Tears came to Neely’s eyes. “What’s there to do? I can’t sing any more.”

“It’s all up there.” Kevin tapped his head. “There’s nothing wrong with your throat.”

“So go tell that to my throat. I’m willing, but the notes won’t come.”

“All right. You’ll be out of here in a few days. Then what?” Kevin demanded.

Neely’s eyes filled with tears. “I’ll leave Anne’s apartment—don’t worry. I’ll check into a hotel.”

“It can’t go on like this, Neely ... all the pills and booze. The next time you won’t be so lucky.”

Neely stretched out. “If I could only sleep, really sleep—like for a week—then I’d be all right. This way I never get more than a few hours. It’s been so long since I had a real night’s sleep ...”

“The sleep cure!” Anne said suddenly.

Both Kevin and Neely stared questioningly. “Yes, the sleep cure,” Anne insisted. She explained how Jennifer had taken it in Switzerland to lose weight, but that it was created to help with emotional disturbances.

Neely was enthusiastic. “A week of sleep! Oh, God, then I bet I’d sing. But Switzerland—that would cost a fortune.”

“If it’s a legitimate treatment, I’m sure we have it here,” Kevin declared.

Dr. Massinger was against it. Yes, he knew about the sleep cure. But Neely’s disturbance was too deeply rooted. It was his feeling that she needed at least a year in a sanitarium. “This is no situational depression,” he insisted. “This girl is deeply disturbed. From her records it is obvious she had suicidal tendencies ten years ago. I recommended a sanitarium the moment she came to me, but she refused to go. She’s been going on sheer nerve and pills ever since. But now she has no choice. She must go away.” He recommended several sanitariums.

Neely would have none of it. “Me go and live with kooks? No siree. I want the plush treatment, like Jennifer had. Champagne for starters, a sympathetic nurse, a lovely needle ... and sleep, beautiful sleep.”

After frantic calls, Kevin finally located a large private sanitarium in upstate New York. Yes, they knew about the sleep cure. They would be delighted to accept Miss O’Hara and administer it to her. Yes, it would be done with the utmost secrecy—the newspapers would never know.

On a balmy Sunday in March, Kevin and Anne drove Neely to Haven Manor. Anne felt confident when she saw the spacious grounds and well-tended lawns. Neely had fortified herself with a few dolls for courage.

They entered a large, ivy-covered Tudor mansion and were ushered into a drawing room lined with paintings of late benefactors. Dr. Hall, the chief of staff, greeted them. He shook hands with Neely. “I’m a great admirer of yours, Miss O’Hara.”

Neely smiled weakly. “Now, if you’ll just complete these forms ... Neely signed her name to several papers. “Okay, let’s get to the sleep cure,” she said brightly.

Dr. Hall pressed a button. A large, stout woman in a white coat appeared. “This is Dr. Archer, my assistant. She will take Miss O’Hara to her room.”

Neely grasped Anne’s hand. “I can’t thank you enough. You’ll come for me in a week?” Anne nodded. Neely turned to Kevin. “I know you’re paying the freight for this. Thanks a lot.”

He shook his head. “I offered to, but Anne is taking care of it. She insisted.” Neely looked at Anne with a shy, sleepy grin.

“Annie ... always there, huh? Thanks.”

“Just get well, Neely,” Anne said.

“I jus’ wanna sleep for a long time.” She went out, leaning on Dr. Archer’s arm.

Anne rose to leave. Dr. Hall cleared his throat. “Miss Welles ... and Mr. Gillmore. Could we talk about this?”

“About what?” Anne sat down again. “This so-called sleep cure. I’ve been on the phone with Dr. Massinger, and I have Miss O’Hara’s past records here. He sent them on. A sleep cure is not the answer, you know.”

“But you said—” Anne was nonplussed.

“I said we could give it. But I hadn’t seen her records or talked to her doctor at the time. We still can, but I would hardly recommend it. Oh, she might come out of it refreshed. She might even function for a few weeks, a month—then she’d return to her old habits. Eventually she would kill herself. She’s bent on it, you know. She’s a great talent—we owe it to her to cure her.”

“But how?” Anne asked.

“Not with sleep cures or pills. This girl is an addict now. Sleeping-pill addiction can be as serious as any other addiction and harder to cure, because unfortunately it’s quite easy for a patient to get pills on the outside. It’s a little tougher to get cocaine, heroin or morphine. Did you know that on the day of the suicide attempt she had taken fifty pills? I checked with her druggist. Her prescription had been filled the night before. And Dr. Massinger never gave them to her—each prescription had a new physician’s name on it. And that bottle of fifty pills was empty when she was found, that and a good supply of liquor—a dangerous combination. Yet she still needed to cut her wrists to accomplish the act. Her tolerance is the tolerance of an addict.”

“What would you recommend?” This was Kevin.

“I’d like to try deep psychiatric therapy. Not shock—not yet, anyway. I hope she won’t need it. But I think, with real work, we can return a bright-eyed, talented girl to the world.”

“How long would it take?” Anne asked.

“At least a year.”

Anne smiled ruefully. “You’d never convince Neely. She’d leave immediately if she didn’t get the sleep cure.”

Dr. Hall’s smile was tired. “She signed this.” He tapped a paper. “She committed herself. Of course, she thought she was just signing in. But this states she must remain here for at least thirty days.”

“Thirty days,” Anne said thoughtfully. “But I know Neely. You’ll never convince her to stay beyond the thirty days.”

“If we can’t, you can commit her.”

“I?” Anne was horrified. “Never!”

Dr. Hall smiled. “Then we could have her certified.”

“What’s that?”

“If our psychiatrists agree that she needs further treatment, we present the case in court. Three outside psychiatrists are called in. If they concur, the court commits her for three months—and every three months she is automatically committed again. We often do this,” he said easily. “It takes the feeling of guilt away from relatives and friends.”

“But this is like railroading her,” Anne protested. “She thinks she’s going to have a week’s sleep. We promised her ...”

“Miss Welles, I admire Miss O’Hara. She’s a great talent. It costs fifteen hundred dollars a month to stay here, and there is a waiting list from all over the country. We took Miss O’Hara ahead of the others because she is an artist—she must be cured. I beg this chance for her. I beg it from you.”

“But Neely was so against a sanitarium—”

“Miss O’Hara is in no condition to make any decision about her future. In fact, if left to her own devices, she won’t have a future.”

Kevin suddenly took over. “I think Dr. Hall knows best. Let’s at least give it a try.”

Anne noddly dumbly. “When can we see her?”

“Not for two weeks. But you may call me every day, and I’ll report her progress. I guarantee you’ll find her much improved when you visit her.”

Anne was silent as they drove back to the city. “Fifteen hundred a month for a year?” Kevin said to her. “Anne, you’d better let me take over.”

“No, this is my responsibility. Kevin, I was thinking ... If I signed with Gillian ... they’re offering me two thousand a week. ...”

“What about our marriage? And our trip?”

“It’s waited this long—what’s a few more months? Besides, I can’t leave on a long trip with Neely at Haven Manor. I’ll have to visit her.”

“You don’t want to marry me, do you, Anne?”

“I do, but—”

“No. That’s why you’re paying Neely’s bills. You don’t want to feel obligated to me.”

“Kevin, you kept me waiting many years before you decided you were ready for marriage. I think we at least owe Neely a few months.”

“So we don’t go on a honeymoon till Neely is set—okay, I’ll buy that—but why can’t we get married? And why should you keep working?”

“If I want to pay for Neely, I’ll have to work. I talked with Henry Bellamy the other day. He told me I was worth close to a million dollars. Of course, a great deal of it is paper profit, but it’s blue-chip paper. But I couldn’t carry Neely without touching my capital, and that would mean selling off some stock. Henry doesn’t want me to do that—he thinks A.T.&T. will keep soaring, that there will be a split. But if I sign with Gillian for another twenty-six weeks, I can afford Neely. That would bring us to next October, and by then Neely should be well on her way to recovery. Then we’ll get married and off we’ll go. I promise.”

Kevin stared off into the distance. He had to go along. Goddam that little brat—whenever she came to town she caused nothing but trouble.

Anne sighed. “Poor Neely. I guess they’ve broken it to her by now. I wonder how she’s taking it.”

******

At first Neely had been patient. She sat in Dr. Archer’s office, monotonously answering the questions the woman asked, lighting one cigarette after another and waiting for the blessed needle that would give her the wonderful sleep. Dr. Archer’s phone finally rang. Neely guessed it was Dr. Hall, giving orders. Dr. Archer answered with a terse, “Yes, Doctor. Of course, Doctor. I’m so glad. I’m in full agreement.”

Neely yawned. Fine. They agreed. That was nice. Now come on, get with it. Dr. Archer pressed a button. Neely stared at the woman’s orthopedic shoes. Now why couldn’t they be nice white shoes? Why did they have to be thick, ugly oxfords? Geez, she was probably born that way—wore orthopedic booties when she was a baby. Neely laughed out loud at this thought, and Dr. Archer turned in surprise. Then a new pair of white shoes, topped by a white uniform, entered the room.

“This is Miss O’Hara,” Dr. Archer said. “Take her to Building Four.”

“Is that where the sleep cure is given?” Neely asked good-naturedly as she followed the nurse. The nurse merely smiled and led her through a series of underground corridors. At each entrance she took out a large set of keys and unlocked a door, then immediately locked it when they had passed through.

“Hey—where is this place? In New Jersey? We been walking a mile.”

“Haven Manor has twenty buildings, not including the gymnasium and occupational therapy building, and although they are all separate buildings, there is an underground passage that connects each one. We have passed from the administration building through Buildings Two and Three, and are now approaching Four.” There was a note of civic pride in her voice.

Building Four was like a private cottage. Neely spotted women of various ages watching television in a large room. They all looked perfectly normal, she thought. The nurse led her down a long hall past many tiny cubbyholes. Geez, some crappy bedrooms. Her bedroom on Fifty-second Street had been three times the size. Each room had a bed, a window, a bureau and a chair. But maybe she was going upstairs to a deluxe suite or something. Obviously this was not the sleep-cure department.

The nurse stopped at a tiny cubbyhole at the end of the hall. “This will be your room.” Neely started to protest—but what the hell, she was going to be asleep. What did it matter if there was no view? She flopped down on the bed. “Okay, bring on the needle.”

The nurse left the room. Minutes ticked by. She looked at her watch. Where in hell were they? She called out, “Hey ... what gives?”

Two nurses suddenly appeared. “You want something, Miss O’Hara?”

“You bet I do. I’m supposed to be put to sleep.”

The nurses exchanged a curious glance.

“I’m here for the sleep cure,” Neely repeated.

“You’re in Building Four. This is the adjustment building.”

“Adjustment for what?”

“All new patients come here for a few days while we evaluate their cases. Then they are transferred to the building that best suits them.”

Neely walked to the bureau and opened her bag. She took out a cigarette. “Call Dr. Hall. There’s been some mistake.”

One of the nurses leaped over and grabbed Neely’s matches. “Hey, what are you doing?” she yelled.

“You are not allowed matches in here.”

“How am I supposed to light my cigarettes?”

The nurse took her bag. “You can’t smoke. There are certain hours when you are allowed to smoke—under supervision.”

Neely tried to snatch her bag back, but it was two against one. “Call Dr. Hall!” she demanded.

“These are Dr. Hall’s orders,” one nurse said. “Now come on, Miss O’Hara. At five o’clock you get two cigarettes. Let’s go out and meet the other patients.”

“What? Me socialize at a funny farm? I’m Neely O’Hara—I pick my friends. Call Anne Welles, or Kevin Gillmore. This is ridiculous. I’m leaving!” She started for the door.

One of the nurses detained her. “She’s still wearing her watch,” the other one said. She unstrapped it, forcefully, from Neely’s wrist.

“Hey, that watch cost a thousand bucks!”

“It will be put in the safe. You’ll get it back, along with your other personal effects, when you leave.”

Neely began to panic. She had never felt this helpless kind of fear before. “Look, call Anne Welles,” she pleaded. “She’ll set things straight.”

Another half hour passed. Neely alternated between anger and fright. She wanted a cigarette. The two Seconals had worn off, and she was wide awake and terrified. She rang. A nurse appeared. The nurse was polite but evasive. Miss O’Hara could have a cigarette right now if she came into the lounge. In fact, she had better hurry. If she missed this smoking period she couldn’t smoke again until nine o’clock.

“Who the hell are you to tell me when I can smoke?” she screamed. “This is no charity ward. This place costs money—I want to be treated with respect.”

“We respect you, Miss O’Hara. But in turn, you must respect the rules of Haven Manor.”

“I don’t follow rules. I make the rules! I’m Neely O’Hara.”

“We know that. We all admire your work very much.”

“Then do as I say!” she demanded.

“We follow orders from Dr. Hall and Dr. Archer.”

“Well, call Dr. Hall!” She turned her back on the nurse. She felt a gnawing terror. Maybe this Dr. Hall was trying to pull a double cross. No, she was just scared, that’s all. There was just some mixup. Dr. Hall wouldn’t dare. Why, if Anne and Kevin found out there’d be hell to pay!

Ten minutes later the nurse returned. “Miss O’Hara, if you’d like to smoke before dinner, please come out. There are only ten more minutes left.”

“I won’t join those kooks!”

The nurse disappeared. Neely began to pace. Boy, she sure needed this sleep cure. She needed some dolls—her hands were shaking. Geez, lately it was getting so she needed a couple of dolls every hour just to keep calm. But the sleep cure would break the habit. Dr. Massinger thought she had just built up this tolerance. Geez, after Spain, what were twenty or thirty dolls a day? But it was lucky she’d left, or she mighta really gotten sick. Damn that Dr. Madera—he had given her that first shot of Demerol ... oh, God, that was an exquisite feeling. It had removed all cares. After the first shot, she had lain in bed for six hours, feeling a silken happiness and a sense of well-being such as she had never known. She felt she could sing better than ever; reach notes that weren’t even there; remain thin without the green dolls; act better than ever.

Of course, when it wore off she felt lousy. How could she face another day, another lover, another party? But there was always Dr. Madera to fix her “bad back.” She had learned that on the movie set in Hollywood—claim a bad back. X-rays can’t pinpoint it; studio doctors can examine you and can’t dispute it. It had often brought her a few days’ release from work. It had worked with Dr. Madera, too—only Demerol was Dr. Madera’s contribution. They never gave that in Hollywood. And Dr. Madera had been very generous with the Demerol. Gave her three shots a day for a whole wonderful year.

After a short time she didn’t just lie in bed. She could function with the Demerol. She’d get up and go nightclubbing, and sing—she never sang better. The picture she had made in Spain—Geez, if only it had gotten an American release. She had reached a new peak in it; she had been thin and vibrant—you didn’t want to eat as long as you had Demerol—and her eyes had been like burning coals. Sure, that was because the pupils went so big and black, dilated from the Demerol. But her voice ... clear and pure.

Then there’d been the money situation, the wire from California. Ted was going to sue for custody of the twins if she didn’t return and take care of them. As if she’d let her sons live with that whore he married! And then, to top everything, Jennifer’s suicide. She had had to leave Spain—and the Demerol. The dolls helped, but now she needed so many—at least thirty a day. Thirty Seconals ... God, she had only had about six today, and the last had been two hours ago. Where in hell was Dr. Hall? When did this thing begin?

A nurse came to inform her that dinner was being served. Would she please come to the dining room? She would not! “I want a cigarette and some Seconals—at least six—to last until Dr. Hall starts this sleep cure.”

She flopped on the bed. Her throat was parched. Geez, a drink, anything ... this two-by-four cage was beginning to crowd in on her. If something didn’t happen soon she’d just walk out of here. They couldn’t stop her—it wasn’t like she was in jail. She heard footsteps. She sat up. Maybe now they were going to put this show on the road. A nurse appeared, carrying a dinner tray. “Miss O’Hara, if you wish to eat in your room—”

The nurse never had a chance to finish the sentence. Neely’s patience snapped. She picked up the tray and hurled it across the room. The nurse ducked. Another one came running. Neely exploded with rage. “I don’t want to eat and I don’t want to socialize. I just want to sleep. Now get me my cigarettes—and give me the sleep cure this minute or I’m leaving. I’ve had enough!”

One nurse, who seemed more important than the others, took charge. “Miss O’Hara, there is no sleep cure.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have checked with Dr. Hall. No sleep cure, no barbiturates. You are going to get well with psychiatry and therapy.”

“I’m leaving!” Neely started for the door, but she was restrained by four arms. “Get your filthy hands off me!” she screamed. “Let me alone!” She started flailing at them with her fists.

A nurse started shouting orders. “Take her to Hawthorn!”

“I’m going home!” Neely screamed. More nurses appeared, and Neely found herself being dragged down a hall. It couldn’t be happening! She, Neely O’Hara, being dragged by four nurses. And this unearthly screaming—it was coming from her! But she wasn’t having a fit, she was just goddam mad at this doublecross.

She fought them all the way—through halls, while doors were locked and unlocked, into another building, down another entrance hall. Two new nurses leaped to take charge. She was dragged down another hall, to another two-by-four room—but even in her fury she noticed the difference. This one had no carpet, no drapes, no bureau. Just a bed—like in a cell! She was deposited on the bed. Her slacks were torn. Thank God she had packed another pair.

A young nurse came and sat down beside her. “Come on now, Miss O’Hara, let’s have some dinner.”

“I want to go home!” Neely shouted.

“Let’s have dinner. Come on and meet the other patients.”

“I want to sleep.” Neely began to sob. She was trapped. She had never felt so trapped in her life. She looked toward the window. No bars ... that was something. Just a screen, and screens could be cut—but with what? She dashed out of the room, ran into a large lounge. There were patients sitting around, quietly watching television. She looked around wildly. What would cut through a screen? She looked at the bookcase. It was stacked with books, puzzles ... a chess set! She grabbed a pawn. It had a small head ... if she poked it hard enough, it might cut through the screen. She ran back to her room clutching the chess piece.

The nurse was sitting on the bed, calmly watching. Let her watch, Neely thought. I’m stronger—let her try and stop me. She opened the window. The nurse didn’t budge. She tried the chess piece on the screen, poking, slashing, sobbing all the while. There must be a weak spot where it could poke through and rip. There had to be . . .

“It’s a steel screen,” the nurse said calmly. “And even if you broke out, you’d be on our grounds. We have twenty-five acres here. And the main gate is locked.”

Neely dropped the pawn. She sat on the edge of the bed and sobbed. The nurse tried to calm her, but her sobs grew more violent. She thought of Anne and Kevin. They were back in New York, probably thinking she was blissfully asleep. She thought of Anne’s apartment. Why hadn’t she stayed there? You could walk around there, light a cigarette whenever you wanted, take as many dolls as you wanted, have a drink ... she thought of Hollywood. The Head ... who was he dictating to now? And Ted ... it was earlier in California, maybe only three o’clock—and it was warm and the sun was shining. Ted was probably at the pool with his wife. And she, the great Neely O’Hara, she was locked in a fancy fruit farm! She sobbed louder. She must have sobbed for an hour, because when she finally looked up it was dark outside. The head nurse appeared. She had a pin on her starched uniform that stated her name was Miss Schmidt. A big bull dyke—that’s what she looked like, Neely decided.

“Miss O’Hara, unless you get hold of yourself, we’ll have to do something to calm you.”

Okay, so that was the answer. She could get a few dolls or a needle. She’d show them! So they never gave barbiturates here. Well, Neely O’Hara would change that. She’d break their fucking rule! She began to scream.

In no time she had some action. The husky nurse reappeared. “Come, Miss O’Hara, this has to stop. You are upsetting the other patients.”

“Let them all go fuck themselves!” Neely shrieked. Her screaming increased in volume.

Miss Schmidt gave a quick nod to the two nurses. They took Neely’s arms and hauled her down the hall. She fought, kicked, screamed—but she was outnumbered and overpowered. She found herself in a large bathroom. Miss Schmidt and the two nurses told her to undress.

“What! And give you dykes a big thrill!” she shouted. Miss Schmidt nodded her head and the two nurses forcibly undressed Neely. Naked, screeching, she was forced into a bathtub. A huge canvas top was hooked over it, leaving just her head exposed. A pillow was placed behind her head. A nurse sat at a table nearby, poised with a notebook and pencil.

Neely continued to scream. Actually the bath felt very good. She loved baths as a rule, loved to lie in one until her skin became waterlogged. And this bath was something special—water kept coming in and going out, bubbling all around her. The sensation was relaxing. She sifted these thoughts as she continued to scream.

Miss Schmidt returned and knelt at her side. Her eyes were kind. “Miss O’Hara, why not try and relax and let the bath do its work?”

“Get me out of here!” Neely screamed.

“You will stay in this tub until you stop yelling—or until you fall asleep.”

“Hah! There’s not enough water in this whole goddam state to put me to sleep!” Neely took a breath and shrieked into Miss Schmidt’s face.

“We’ve had patients in the tub for as long as fifteen hours,” Miss Schmidt answered. She stood up. “I’ll drop by in an hour. Maybe you’ll be more relaxed by then.”

In an hour! Neely felt hoarse. Her throat hurt. She wanted to lie back and relax, but that’s what they expected, what they wanted. She was hungry ... she wanted a cigarette, and some dolls. Oh, God, some dolls! She began to scream, cursing Dr. Hall, the nurses, the hospital ... when she ran out of oaths she broke into sobs. But she noticed the little nurse at the table stopped writing when she sobbed. So that was it—write down every word the patients says so the great Dr. Hall can read it. Relax now, huh? Well, there would be no relaxation for anyone—not as long as Neely O’Hara was here.

She began to scream again. She used her most vicious language and noticed that the little nurse turned scarlet when she recorded the obscenities. In some part of her mind she felt sorry for the nurse. The girl was young—maybe nineteen—and it wasn’t her fault ... she hadn’t made the rules. But she kept screaming all the oaths she had ever learned. Meanwhile she worked at the canvas with her knees, though they were getting scraped. Suddenly she found a way of slipping her head under the canvas. She dived down.

The little nurse sprang over and pulled her head out, then leaped back and rang a bell. Others came, and the neck opening was made smaller. Neely screamed louder ... the nurse wrote faster.

While she had been under the canvas she had spotted a small hole near the faucet. As she continued to scream and the nurse continued to write, Neely worked at the hole with her big toe. It grew larger—soon she could put half her foot in it. She kept hurling violent oaths to keep the nurse busy writing. Then, with a superhuman effort, she put her foot in the hole and yanked her knee up to her chest. There was a loud rip and the canvas split open. Neely leaped out of the tub. The nurse sounded the alarm. A battery of nurses came charging in, led by Miss Schmidt. A new canvas top was placed on the tub, but Neely did have the small satisfaction of hearing one nurse whisper, ”No one has ever torn a canvas!”

She must have been screaming forever. There had been a change of nurses. This one was young too, but Neely’s profanities didn’t make her bat an eye. Neely was hoarse ... exhausted ... her back ached ... her knees hurt ... her toe felt like it was broken from ripping the canvas—but she continued to scream. The door opened. A doctor entered. He pulled up a stool and sat near the tub.

“Good evening, I’m Dr. Clements. I’m making the rounds tonight.”

She noticed the hour on his large watch. Nine o’clock. She must have been in this tub almost three hours.

“Can I help you?”

I’m not crazy, they are, she thought. Here he is, sitting here, like maybe we’re passing the time of day, me with my head sticking out of this frigging tub, and he casually asks if he can help me.

“Is there anything I can do?”

She turned to him, and the tears began to stream down her face. “What kind of a psychiatrist are you?” she gasped. “Can you help me? God, every doctor in this place knows why I’m here. You all know I was double-crossed. I was promised a sleep cure, and because I want my rights I get dumped into this tub!”

“A sleep cure?” His surprise was real.

“Yeah, that’s why I came here. For eight days. To sleep. That stinking Dr. Hall promised. Then the moment my friends left, wham! Everything changed.”

He looked at the nurse. The nurse shrugged. He looked back at Neely. “I just came on duty. I know nothing about your case. I’m just making the rounds. I’ll hand in my report tomorrow, and I’m sure everything will be straightened out.”

“Just like that, huh?” She didn’t scream. She had sensed a look of concern in the young doctor’s eyes. Maybe she could reach him. “You’re supposed to help me,” she begged. “Is this why you studied? Is this how you help? Make a notation about me, then go home and sleep in your own bed while I lay here waterlogged? If you were a real human being with compassion, you’d give me a cigarette ... something to eat ... a few Seconals ... not just make a note in your book and walk away.”

He left the room. She renewed her efforts at screaming. Her throat was sore and she was tired. If she could only stop ... the water was bubbling at an even temperature. Maybe she could sleep at that—but then they’d win! Everyone stays in the tub till they sleep. Not Neely O’Hara! If she lost the first battle, she’d lose them all. She screamed louder. . . .

An hour later the young doctor returned. He was accompanied by Miss Schmidt. He opened his bag, poured something into a glass and handed it to Miss Schmidt. “I spoke to Dr. Hall at home. He agrees the main thing is to get her to sleep. Tonight, at any rate.”

Miss Schmidt held the glass against Neely’s lips. “Drink it.”

Neely turned her head away. “I do nothing till I get out of here.”

“Drink it,” Miss Schmidt said softly. “You’ll fall asleep right away and we’ll take you out. I promise.”

Neely understood. They had said she wouldn’t leave the tub until she fell asleep, but they were giving her something to make her sleep. It was her victory. No barbiturates, huh? Well, what the hell was that smoky-looking stuff, an ice cream soda? She let Miss Schmidt pour the drink down her throat. She drained the glass dry.

Jesus! Now this was a recipe! She felt the effects instantly. It was marvelous! She stopped yelling. The most incredible feeling had come over her. They were taking off the canvas top ... someone was rubbing her body with a Turkish towel ... she was helped into a nightgown ...

“We’re full at Hawthorn,” Miss Schmidt said. “Miss O’Hara, can you understand? There is no private room left. We have to put you in a dormitory.”

Neely waved her hand. A bed ... sleep ... that’s all she wanted and she didn’t care where.

******

It was dark when she woke. Where in hell was she? In a long room with a lot of beds. Oh Geez, the funny farm! What time was it? She got out of bed. The nurse who sat outside the door jumped up. “Yes, Miss O’Hara?”

“What time is it?”

“It’s four in the morning.”

“I’m hungry.” Some milk and crackers were immediately produced on a pretty tray. They let her sit on the bench in the hall. God forbid she should wake the other kooks. She finished the milk—now could she have a cigarette? She could not. They were polite, but she could not have a cigarette. Well, what were they gonna do? She wasn’t sleepy; besides, someone was snoring in the room. Miss Schmidt apologized. A private room would open in a few days.

Neely returned to her bed. A few days! She would leave as soon as it was daylight. They’d have to let her put in a call to Anne.

She must have fallen asleep, because the next thing she knew there was great activity. Everyone was up. A nurse came in, a new one.

“Good morning, Miss O’Hara. Get up and make your bed. The bathroom is down the hall.”

“Make my bed!” Neely snapped. “Not at these prices, sister. I haven’t made my bed in fifteen years, and I don’t aim to start now.”

“I’ll do it for you.” A nice-looking girl with sandy hair rushed across the room. “My name’s Carole.”

“Why should you make my bed?” Neely asked as she watched the girl whip the sheets into order.

Carole smiled. “They’ll give you a black mark if they find it unmade. This is your first day. You’ll get with it.”

“What do I care about a black mark?” Neely asked.

“Well, you don’t want to stay in the Hawthorn Pavilion forever, do you? You want to move to Fir next, then Elm, then Ash, then the out-patient clinic.”

“Sounds like school.”

“It is in a way. This is the most disturbed ward. I was all the way up to Elm, but I ... acted up. I’ve been at Hawthorn two months now. I hope to get transferred to Fir soon.”

Neely followed Carole into a large bathroom. There were about twenty women there, brushing their teeth and chattering. They were all ages. Some were in their forties; there was one lovely-looking woman about seventy; Carole was about twenty-five. There were six or seven girls her own age, and several who were even younger. They chattered like students in a school dormitory. Neely was given a toothbrush, and an attendant came over with a large box. “All right, girls, here’s your lipsticks.” Neely couldn’t believe her eyes. In the box were twenty lipsticks with names taped on. She saw her own; it had been taken from her bag and taped neatly. She used the lipstick and then handed it back to the attendant.

Then she was herded in line to get her clothes. An attendant handed her a bra, pants, flat loafers, skirt and blouse. To her amazement, they were her clothes, all name taped. She hadn’t packed them. Anne must have sent them by messenger during the night.

That meant Anne knew she wasn’t taking the sleep cure!

Her fear made her numb. She dressed slowly, trying to get some order out of her jumbled terror. She followed Carole into the large recreation room. The sun flooded through the windows, creating a false air of cheer. She looked at the clock. God, it was only seven-thirty! How could she get through this day?

Miss Schmidt had been replaced by a day nurse, Miss Weston. She was built on the same lines as Miss Schmidt, and the five or six young nurses leaped at her commands with the same alacrity. Neely joined everyone for breakfast. The dining room was bright and cheerful, with four women to a table and scurrying waitresses. She had decided not to eat, but the first whiff of the bacon and eggs reminded her she was hungry. She ate a large breakfast and trudged back with the others to the recreation room.

They were obviously well-bred kooks, she decided. She knew they recognized her, but they smiled at her politely and warmly, without making her feel self-conscious. She looked dreadful. The skirt needed a belt—there had been a belt, but they had removed it. Her hair was in strings and her knees were scraped, mementos of the night in the bathtub. She wished she felt the warm camaraderie and good humor the other girls seemed to share. They acted as if they liked the place!

Carole introduced her around. Geez, everyone seemed so sane and normal. She sat down, wondering what happened next. A nurse entered, and everyone surged around her. She was holding a box, and she called out every name, even “Miss O’Hara.” Neely went over. Geez, were they organized—even her package of cigarettes was labeled. The nurse handed each girl two cigarettes, and another nurse stood by to light them. Neely settled back and puffed gratefully at the first cigarette she had had in over twelve hours. The first draw made her dizzy, the second was satisfying and the third cleared her head. Imagine going without a cigarette since yesterday afternoon, she who smoked over two packs a day. She got up slowly, stabilized by the cigarette, and walked over to the desk where Miss Weston was sitting.

“I’d like to make a phone call,” she said. “Where do I go?”

“Phone calls aren’t allowed,” Miss Weston said pleasantly.

“Well, how do I reach my friends?”

“You are allowed to write letters.”

“Can I have a pen and some paper?”

The nurse looked at her watch. “I think it had better wait. The doctor is coming to see you in five minutes.”

“Dr. Hall?”

“No, Dr. Feldman. This is just a routine checkup.”

He was a medical doctor, not a nutcracker. He took some blood from her finger and her arm and checked her heart.

She asked a nurse to light her second cigarette. An attractive, dark-haired girl came over. “Don’t let the checkup bother you. They do that to make sure you’re healthy. It would be embarrassing to have you die of cancer or something while they were taking care of your brain.”

Neely looked at the girl. She could be beautiful with proper makeup, she felt. Her bone structure was good and her black eyes flashed. She must have had a good figure once, though now she was quite heavy. Neely judged her to be about thirty years old.

The girl sat down. She was holding a square box. “I’m Mary Jane. Let me break you in—when you get to gym, buy a box of writing paper. It costs a dollar.”

“But I have no money.”

Mary Jane smiled. “You charge everything—it’s put on your bill. But you can use it as a kind of pocketbook.” She opened her box. There was writing paper in it—and a pack of cigarettes.

“Where did you get—” The girl silenced her with a quick gesture. “On visiting days, you’re allowed to sit with your visitors and chain smoke. Get whoever visits you to bring a carton. Then you hide it, and in smoking periods you can smoke a dozen.”

“But they light you up. They’ll notice if you smoke more than two.”

“The nurses are wise. You can always cadge a light from someone else’s cigarette. That’s allowed. It’s just matches we loonies aren’t allowed to have. But the nurses don’t care how many we smoke. They figure we have to have some pleasure in life.”

Neely smiled. “You’re not a loony, are you?” “No, I came here to get even with my husband, only it backfired. He’s a bastard—loads of money—and he got himself another girl. He wanted a divorce, so I pretended to go ape—you know, have a nervous collapse. It was the biggest mistake of my life.”

“Why?”

“All I did was take a few pills—three pills—and leave a phony suicide note. The next thing I know, I’m in Bellevue. Boy, you could really go crazy there. Real nuts around you, screaming and carrying on. I guess then I actually flipped from fright. I began to scream and wound up in a straitjacket. So, since my husband could afford it, I came here. Signed myself in. Then, when I wanted to leave, he had me committed. I’ve been here five months. I was at Elm House officially, which was pretty good. You can smoke there and wear belts, even use more makeup. But when I learned he had committed me, I got hysterical, threw a tantrum. So here I am at Hawthorn. And I warn you—play ball with them. I didn’t. I threw tantrums every day, refused to eat, refused to cooperate. I spent three weeks in the damn bathtub. You have to play along. There’s only one way—their way. I’m being an angel, and soon I’ll get moved to Fir. A while there, then Elm, then Ash, then the out-patient cottage ... then out for good.”

Neely was suddenly cold with fear. “But that sounds like months.”

“It’ll take about a year,” Mary Jane said cheerfully.

“And don’t you mind?”

The girl shrugged. “Sure I mind. I cared enough to scream and shout for a week. But you can’t fight them. They show the record to your lawyer, or husband, or whoever is responsible for you. It looks bad on paper—’Patient had hysterics. Patient had to be restrained. Twelve hours in the tub.’ Then they say to your lawyer, ’Now just sign her in for another three months. Don’t you want a bright-eyed, healthy girl returned to you and to society?’ Sure, for fifteen hundred a month they can afford to take their time. So I’ve decided not to fight it. I’ll sit it out. Besides, what have I got to lose? I’ve got no place to go. Hank—that’s my husband—he’s with his girl. But at least he can’t marry her. And it costs him fifteen hundred a month for me.”

“But I only came here for eight days—for a sleep cure.”

“A what?” Mary Jane looked at her strangely.

Neely explained the sleep cure. Mary Jane smiled. “They never give it here. They won’t even give you an aspirin.”

“They gave me something last night,” Neely said proudly.

Mary Jane laughed. “Boy, we had to hand it to you. Did you really tear the canvas? Everyone heard you did.”

Neely nodded. “And I’ll get out of here, too.”

Mary Jane smiled. “Okay, I’m all for it. Show me how it’s done. Look at Peggy—they’ve brainwashed her husband.”

Peggy walked over. She was twenty-five, blonde, attractive. “Telling her all our gruesome case histories?” Peggy asked.

“Why are you here?” Neely asked.

“Because I was nutty as a fruitcake,” Peggy said cheerfully.

“No she wasn’t,” Mary Jane said. “She lost two babies in a row, stillborn. Anyone would go into a depression.”

Peggy managed a smile. “All I know is I’d begin to cry if I saw a doll in a store window. When I got here it was worse. I’ve had forty shock treatments. I’m just beginning to feel human again.”

Neely’s throat swelled in horror. Shock treatment! Mary Jane read her thoughts. “Don’t worry. Even if they think you need it, they still have to get permission. Whoever is your nearest of kin or is responsible for you.”

Neely relaxed. “Anne would never give permission.”

Mary Jane smiled. “Unless they brainwash her, like they did Peggy’s husband. When Dr. Hall and Dr. Archer start to work on them, the first thing you know they agree to anything. Peggy’s husband arrived the first visiting day. She was fine—just wanted to get out. He was so thrilled. He said he would go right to the office and sign her out. Ha! That was it! He didn’t come back for two weeks. And the following day Peggy started her shock treatments.”

“But why?” Peggy sighed. “I don’t blame Jim. At first I did, but now I can understand. They showed him my chart. I was depressed, I didn’t sleep, I cried a lot—all signs of a manic depressive. Who wouldn’t cry after losing two babies and being stuck here? But they convinced Jim that if I went home I’d crack up again, and maybe for good. Naturally Jim wants a happy wife, so he signed the papers and committed me.”

Neely listened. Everyone had a similar story. No one was nuts; in fact everyone seemed more normal than the people she knew on the outside. She was in the middle of listening to the seventh life story when the nurse called, “Come, ladies!”

“Now what?” Neely asked.

“Gym,” Mary Jane explained.

They followed the nurse in a double file. They went through corridors; doors were unlocked and relocked; they finally entered a large gymnasium. There was a badminton court, Ping-Pong tables—even a pool table. A group was leaving when they entered. Mary Jane waved to a few girls.

“That’s the Fir group. They use the gym from eight to eight-thirty. Those girls I waved to—they were just promoted last week, from Hawthorn to Fir.”

Neely sat on the sidelines while the others chose sides for badminton and Ping-Pong. She bought a box of writing paper, but she refused to be fitted for gym shoes. She was not staying long enough, she told them. The writing paper? Well, she had to write to Anne. She must not get panicky. Mary Jane said if she showed fear, they’d mark it against her.

They left the gymnasium at nine-thirty as another group entered. They were led to another building—occupational therapy. All the girls rushed to their projects, and the teacher explained that she could do mosaic work, or knit, or anything she wished. She wished to do nothing! She sat in a corner. Oh, God, how did this happen? She looked out the window. Patches of grass were beginning to get green. She saw a little rabbit bound across the grounds. At least he could go where he chose. He was free. The feeling of confinement was more than she could bear. She stared at the teacher, who was patiently helping the girls. Sure—at five the teacher was free to go, to do as she wished. She needed a cigarette. She needed a doll! Oh, God, anything for a doll. She felt the perspiration come to the back of her neck. Her hair was damp and her back was aching, really hurting now. She was going to black out! She moaned softly. The teacher came rushing over to her. “My back,” she complained

“Did you hurt it in gym?” The instructor was all attention.

“No, I have a history of a bad back. It’s acting up now.”

The instructor immediately lost interest. “You’ll have a session with your psychiatrist this afternoon at two. You can tell him.”

So the day went. By two, when she saw the doctor, she was ready to scream. He was a thin, red-faced man named Dr. Seale. He wrote as she talked. She poured out her wrath—the injustice of the double cross, the promised sleep cure, the way she was being pushed around. She chain smoked cigarettes. During sessions with psychiatrists patients were given all the cigarettes they wished.

“My back really aches,” she pleaded. “Please give me a few Seconals.”

He kept writing. Then he said, “How long have you been taking Seconals?”

She lost her patience. “Oh, come on—don’t make a federal case out of that. If everyone who took them was in a loony bin, you’d have half of Hollywood and all of Madison Avenue and Broadway in here.”

“Do you think it’s normal to take sleeping pills in the middle of the day to ease pain?”

“No, I’d much prefer a shot of Demerol,” she said. She was pleased at the angle his eyebrows shot up. “Yes, Demerol.” She smiled. “In Spain I got it all the time. Two or three times a day. And I functioned just fine. I even made a picture. So you see, two lousy little Seconals are like appetizers for me. Now come on, get me a few. If I can have two every hour, I might be able to get with it around here.”

“Tell me about your mother, Miss O’Hara.”

“Oh, shit! Don’t tell me we’re gonna start with that Freudian jazz. Look, I went through all that way back in California. It took me five years and twenty thousand dollars to convince him I didn’t remember my mother. If we’re gonna start back there, I’ll be an old woman before I get outta here.”

“I’ll send for your records from California,” he said.

“I won’t be here that long. I’m writing to my friend tonight.”

“But you must stay at least thirty days.”

“Thirty days!”

He explained the paper she had signed. She shook her head. “What a racket. They think of everything. When you’re coming here, who figures you need the William Morris office to check the fine print!”

He stood up. “I’ll see you tomorrow, same time.”

She shrugged. “Okay, so I got a thirty-day hitch. I might as well enjoy it.” Then she said suddenly, “I can leave in thirty days, can’t I?”

“We’ll see,” he said vaguely.

“What do you mean, we’ll see?”

“At the end of the period we’ll evaluate our findings. If we think you’re fit—”

”We? What is this we crap? I’m the one who’s here, and I’m the one to say I want to go. How can anyone stop me?”

“Miss O’Hara, if you insisted on leaving and we didn’t think you were fit, we would talk to the people who are responsible for you—in this case, Miss Welles. We’d ask her to commit you for three months—that is, if you didn’t agree to sign yourself in.”

“Suppose Anne refused?”

“Then we could take means to have you committed—present your case to an impartial board ...”

She was rigid with fright. “A nice little racket you got here.”

“It’s no racket, Miss O’Hara. We want to cure people. If we released someone before she was cured and she took her life a few months later, or harmed someone else ... well, it wouldn’t give us a good name. If you had an operation in a medical hospital and you wanted to leave before the incision had healed, the doctor would have a right to restrain you. At Haven Manor, when we release a person, they are ready to take their place in society.”

“Sure—in the old-age home.”

He smiled. “I think you have a long, productive life ahead. A year or two here will not be wasted.”

“A year or two!” She began to tremble. “No! Listen ... thirty days, okay—if I’m stuck. But that’s all!”

He smiled again. “You take your Rorschach test now. That will tell us more.”

Neely grabbed his arm. “Look, Doc, I don’t know about tests—maybe my inkblots will show I’m some kind of a nut—but I’m not like other people. That’s why I’m a star. You can’t get to where I’ve gotten unless you are different. Why, if you threw a butterfly net over Sardi’s and Chasens and gave them Rorschach tests, you wouldn’t release any of them for years. Don’t you see, it’s just our little kinks that make us what we are.”

“I agree. And they’re fine if they work for you. But when they turn and work toward self-destruction, then we have to step in and change the course.”

“I’m not self-destructive. Everything just went wrong. Look, when you have a studio treating you like you were Jesus Christ for so many years, taking care of everything, I guess it becomes a big mother image. They do everything—get you plane tickets, write your speeches, take care of the press ... they even fix traffic tickets. And you gradually fall into a way of depending on them. You feel like you belong, like the studio is protecting you. Then, when you’re thrown on your own, it’s like a big rejection. It’s scary. I felt like I was just Neely again.”

“Who is ’just Neely’?”

“Ethel Agnes O’Neill, who had to do her own dirty work, wash her own underwear and make her own breaks. Neely O’Hara had things done for her. She commanded respect. It should work like that, if you’re a real talent, so that all you have to do is concentrate on your work. That’s why I lost my voice—I couldn’t do both.”

“But Ethel Agnes O’Neill obviously did both at one time,” he said.

“Sure. At seventeen you can do anything. You have nothing to lose. You start with nothing, so you can attempt anything. I’m thirty-two now. I haven’t worked recently, but I’m sort of a living legend. I can’t afford to risk my reputation. That’s why I really froze on that picture in Hollywood. It was a one-picture deal—no studio was behind me, building me for the future and guarding me. They were using me, hoping to make a quick buck on my name. I knew it was a lousy picture and they knew it, too, but they figured it would make money. So I lost my voice—I really lost it. Dr. Massinger explained that to me. But the studio marks me as uncooperative and unreliable so they can get off the hook.”

“But I thought you said the studio was the mother image.”

She sighed. “That’s gone. Television changed everything. Even The Head. He’s a frightened old man who has to report every move to his stockholders. They’re trying to dump him, I hear. Everything is changed.”

“Then you have to change with it, grow up.”

“Maybe,” she agreed. “But it doesn’t mean I have to run scared. I’m a star. I have to act like one, no matter what happens.”

He led her to the door. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“When can I see Anne?”

“In two weeks.”

Two weeks! Neely returned to the main recreation room. She slipped six cigarettes into the writing-paper box and returned the pack to the nurse. No matches, but she’d figure a way.

There was a recreation period. The girls wrote letters, played cards. Then there was a smoking period, and everyone seemed to be chain smoking. Neely wrote a long, outraged letter to Anne, telling her everything that had happened, ending with a strong demand for instant release. She folded it into the envelope and began to seal it. The nurse labeled “Miss Weston” came by

“Don’t seal it,” she warned. “Just write your doctor’s name on the corner where the stamp should be. He’ll read it, and if he approves of it he’ll mail it.”

Neely’s jaw dropped. “You mean Dr. Seale gets to read everything I write?”

“It’s the rule here.”

“But that’s not right. A person should have some privacy.”

“It’s done to protect the patient,” Miss Weston said.

“Protect the patient! You mean protect this creep joint!”

“No, Miss O’Hara. Very often a patient is depressed and takes her hostility out on the one she loves. Let’s say a woman is put here by her husband. She’s always been a true and devoted wife, but while she’s here she gets hallucinations and writes to her husband that she hates him, that she’s been untrue to him—even mentions friends of his who were her lovers. None of it is true, but how is the husband to know? That’s why the doctor reads the letter before it goes out.”

Miss Weston smiled as Neely fingered the letter. “Look, if you’ve written that you hate it here, or even uncomplimentary remarks about Dr. Seale, don’t worry. He’ll understand, and the letter will be posted. All he’s interested in is protecting you—that’s why the rule was made.”

Neely handed over the letter. So Dr. Seale would read that she thought he looked like an eggplant—served him right, him and his rules! She put her head in her hands. Jesus, she had to get out!

Mary Jane tapped her on the shoulder. “Don’t sit that way. They’ll write that you’re in a depressed state.”

Neely laughed aloud, bitterly.

“Don’t laugh that way,” Mary Jane warned. “That’s hysteria. If you laugh, laugh normally. And don’t stick by yourself. They’ll write that you’re withdrawn, antisocial ...”

“Oh come on!” Neely exclaimed. “This is too much.”

“It’s true. Why do you think they keep six nurses for just twenty of us? We’re always under C.O.—constant observation. Twice a week the head nurses meet with the doctors and give reports on you. Everyone gives reports on you—the occupational therapy instructor, the gym instructor ... you’ve got two bad marks already—you sulked in gym and refused to cooperate in O.T. Didn’t want to make one of the darling little ceramic ashtrays. You’ve got to remember, Big Brother is everywhere, always watching.”

When they returned to occupational therapy later in the afternoon, Neely began making a cigarette box. “I’ll point to it as my fifteen-hundred-dollar cigarette box,” she said to herself. She worked feverishly with the sandpaper, smoothing down the wooden surface. She hoped the teacher was watching.

At five, everyone was taken to the massage room—showers, massage, Swedish hose. It could really have been quite nice, but she hated every second. She envied the girls who acted as if they were away at summer camp, enjoying the whole thing as a social event. Maybe for some of them this was escape from dull lives, but it was no holiday for her. Her back was murder and her hands were shaking. If she didn’t have a doll soon she’d scream. Waves of nausea broke over her. She mustn’t get sick—it would be a bad mark. She clenched her teeth, finally rushed to the toilet and vomited secretly. She came back and took the Swedish hose. Okay, she’d play ball ... until Anne came. Then she’d convince Anne that she was fine. She had to get out in the thirty days. God, a year in this joint with the badminton and arts and crafts and she’d really be crazy!

At six o’clock they returned to Hawthorn Pavilion. Everyone sat around. There were plenty of books to read, and everyone offered her candy. No wonder they had all gained weight. Mary Jane confided she had put on twenty pounds in five weeks.

Suddenly Carole, the nice girl who had made her bed, stood up and screamed. “You’ve insulted me,” she shouted at the girl beside her.

The girl looked up in surprise. “Carole, I was reading. I haven’t said a word.”

”You said I was a latent homosexual,” Carole insisted. “I’ll kill you!”

She lunged at the girl. Two nurses separated them instantly. Carole kicked and screamed and fought the nurses, and hurled oaths as she was dragged out of the room.

”Two days in the bathtub will calm her down,” Mary Jane commented.

”Did the girl say anything?” Neely asked.

Mary Jane shook her head. “Carole’s a paranoic. An awfully nice girl. She can go for weeks being absolutely divine, then out of the blue she imagines something. I don’t think she’ll ever get well. She’s been here two years.”

Two years. You’d have to go crazy by then. Neely’s terror was now absolute. Her back was twitching with pain ... her throat burned ... but she had to hold on. She had to! Was this really happening to her? Jesus, other stars did crazy things, and you read about them going to sanitariums. It sounded so nice, so easy, like they could come and go. Were they trapped like this—had they gone through this terror? Or was she the only one who had been railroaded? Look, Neely, she told herself. You’ll make it. You started with nothing, and got to the top. You’ll get out of here. Just hold on, girl.

Dinner was served at six-thirty. Then they took showers, and afterward everybody sat around in pajamas and robes. Some looked at television. Idly, she watched a movie, recalling that she had once had a brief affair with the star. God, all those lucky people in the outside world. If she ever got out she’d act fine. No more fits, no more tantrums—just two dolls a night. She needed a cigarette—she had smoked the cache she had hoarded. Mary Jane slipped her a few more. Several girls told her their life stories, and she tried to appear interested. No one was crazy—everyone was here by mistake.

At ten o’clock everyone went to bed. She lay in the dormitory, and soon she heard the regular breathing of all the other girls. Who in hell could go to sleep at this hour? And every half hour a nurse came in and flashed a light at each bed. She kept her eyes closed and pretended to be asleep—they might say she was disturbed if she didn’t sleep. She heard the clock strike twelve, then one. She thought of all the luxuries everyone took for granted, things she couldn’t have, like the luxury of being able to turn on a bed light and read, of lighting a cigarette. She wouldn’t even mind not having the dolls or the booze—but just to lie here like this was ridiculous. Geez, if she got through this night then she was really strong. Nothing could ever kill her.

Two o’clock. She had to go to the bathroom. Would they write it down as a neurotic act? Christ, taking a leak was normal. She got up and walked down the hall. Two nurses leaped to her side. “Anything wrong, Miss O’Hara?” No, she just wanted to take a leak. She often took a leak during the night.

She went to the community bathroom while a nurse posted herself outside the door. Oh, God, not even to take a leak in private ...

Anne

1961

Anne sat by the window and smoked. It had been an awful visit. Neely pleading and sobbing, begging to be released; Dr. Hall and Dr. Archer and Dr. Seale all reading reports to her, arguing that Neely was definitely disturbed, that she was having a “walking nervous breakdown” with suicidal tendencies, that to take Neely out now would be signing her death warrant. Before talking to the doctors she had promised Neely to get her out immediately, but the reports spoke louder than Neely’s tears.

How could she face those haunted eyes and tell her she had to stay at least three months? She had signed the commitment. Kevin had insisted. God, had she done the right thing? The doctors said Neely should have been in a sanitarium long ago, that there was no stigma about it today, that when Neely got better, she could go on to bigger and better things. It would be rough for Neely, but in the long run it would pay off. And it wasn’t as if she were in some dreadful place—the hospital was beautiful. For fifteen hundred a month it should be beautiful. But those pleading eyes kept stabbing her conscience. It must be awful to be locked up, no matter how plush the cell. She would visit Neely again in two weeks. Perhaps she’d be more adjusted.

At the next visit, Anne found Neely in good humor. She had been moved to Fir House. “I’m promoted!” she shrieked when Anne came in. “I’ve graduated to eyebrow pencil and I have a bureau. I get a package of cigarettes every other day. Did you bring the carton? Good. I’ll stash them away. We still have to be lit up, but the night nurse at Fir House is a fan of mine. Last night she snuck me out of my room into her lounge and let me watch an old movie of mine on the late show. We both smoked like crazy.”

Neely had gained some weight, but she looked well. Her back still hurt, she complained, and she never slept. But she would sit it out for the three months. She understood—they had brainwashed Anne. They did it to everyone. She hated the place, but the girls were nice. Only she had found out they were not as normal as they seemed. Mary Jane was an alcoholic, and Pat Toomey—the society girl who claimed she was only there because her husband was trying to get the children—had no children! She had been in and out of institutions since she was sixteen. The night nurse had told her.

“I’m as normal as apple pie compared to these cats,” Neely exclaimed. “But on the surface, they all seem fine.”

In May, Neely had a setback. Through her friendship with the night nurse, who had consequently been fired, she had stolen a bottle of Nembutals. They found the half-empty bottle under her mattress. She had fought violently when they tried to take them away—she’d screamed oaths and gone into a frenzied rage that required a ten-hour siege in the bathtub. She was put back in Hawthorn. When Anne visited her, she was sullen and uncommunicative.

Anne continued to visit her every week. She had signed for the new season with Gillian. Kevin had sold the company, but he hung around the studio, and his silent presence was worse than a shrieking protest.

Secretly, Kevin blamed everything on Neely. He was secure in Anne’s devotion, he told himself. Anne belonged to him, married or not. Look how long she had stuck when he had been against marriage. He knew it was wrong to hang around like this—the new owners were in full command and everything was running well. But he had nothing to fill his time. An occasional visit to his brokers, his daily shave, lunch with his lawyer ... but this could not fill a day. So he found himself coming to the studio, watching Anne tape the commercials. And each time he came, he promised himself it would be the last.

He was telling himself this again. It was a cold, rainy day, unseasonable for June. He sat outside in the hall while Anne rehearsed in the studio. Well, in three more weeks the show would go off for the summer. Anne had promised they’d take a vacation together—but it would probably be Dune Deck in the Hamptons, so she could still visit Neely each week.

Jerry Richardson, the director, brought a stranger over. “Kevin, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, an old buddy. We were in the war together. Kevin Gillmore, Lyon Burke.”

Kevin froze at the name. It had to be the same one—it wasn’t a common name. He looked more like an actor than a writer. A good build, too, and that tan ... Kevin suddenly felt pasty and old. He was also suddenly aware of his own thinning hair. Burke’s hair was coal black, heavy, just getting gray at the temples. And the big grin the bastard had. Kevin smiled nervously and shook hands with Lyon.

“You joining the outfit?” he asked.

“No. Just got into town a few days ago. Had lunch with Jerry, and he told me an old friend was working here—Anne Welles. I dropped by to say hello.”

“I’ll see if she’s free,” Kevin said quickly. “I discovered her . . . made her the Gillian Girl. Come on, she’s in the studio.” He took Burke’s arm. He had to be there, to see Anne’s reaction.

She was going through the final dress rehearsal, so Kevin and Lyon sat in the audience. He knew she couldn’t see them behind the strong lights and cautiously fastened his attention on Lyon, watching his reactions. Lyon watched the rehearsal with interest. “She’s really excellent at this,” he said to Kevin, as if making a surprising discovery.

“She was great right from the start,” Kevin said carefully.

“This is the first time I’ve seen her. I’ve been in Europe.”

“They’re breaking now. Want to come around and say hello?” Kevin made his voice casual.

“By all means!” He sprang up and followed Kevin.

Anne was discussing some changes with the producer when the two men approached. She saw Kevin and smiled intimately, with a wink that said, “This will be finished in a second.” At first her glance passed over Lyon—then it returned in startled disbelief.

“Yes, it’s me,” he said with a bright smile. He walked over and took both her hands.

She smiled weakly. She actually felt her lips tremble. Lyon, more overpoweringly attractive than ever ... somehow she found her voice and said it was good to see him.

“Can we sit a bit?” he asked. “It’s devilishly hot under these lights. Or must you continue?”

“No, as a matter of fact I’m through until taping time.”

“I have some things to attend to at the office,” Kevin said. “Why don’t you both run off for a while—you must have a lot of catching up to do.” He nodded and walked away. Anne knew it was the most difficult move he had made in his life.

The pain of his grandstand play of pride and dignity was revealed in the stiffness of his shoulders. Her heart went out to him. He was scared—but he was fighting for a show of courage. She was also fighting as she led Lyon to her dressing room. He’s back—just like that, she thought. And am I supposed to forget fifteen years of silence and hold out my arms to him? Yet that’s exactly what I want to do. I can hardly look at him without wanting to reach out and touch him. But there’s Kevin now ... where would I have been without Kevin? And where was Lyon all these years!

In her dressing room they sat down. She let him light her cigarette and deliberately waited for him to speak.

“Well, it looks as if you were right,” he said.

“About what?”

“New York ... your real love.” He waved his hand, taking in everything around her. “You liked it here, and you’ve made it, Anne. I’m terribly proud of you.”

“You made it too, Lyon.”

“Not in dollars and cents, or in high-styled success. But yes, you could say I made it, because I am doing what I really wanted to do. And I believe you’re the same girl who once told me that everyone owed himself that chance.”

“What are you doing in New York?”

“We’re terribly fascinated with your commercial television and the quick buildup of your artists. One of our newspapers has assigned me to write a series covering all the aspects of your television—the girls who make millions with one hit record, the cowboy stars who wind up owning factories—and the girls who become financial wizards selling nail polish.”

She laughed. “Don’t you have that over there?”

“Not yet. Oh, I suppose it’s coming—we’re about ten years behind you—but at least I can prepare the British Isles for the invasion that will come.” He smiled. “It’s a far cry from the writing I set out to do, but it’s a windfall. Pays well, and also gives me a chance to visit the States.”

“How long will you be here?”

“About six weeks, I should think.”

“Have you seen Henry?”

“We lunched yesterday. Henry’s tired. He wants to sell the business. George Bellows is trying to raise the money, and if not, the Johnson Harris office will buy him out.” He lit a cigarette. “I saw George, too. He’s quite prosperous looking. But I don’t envy him. It’s the same rat race.”

“Nothing comes easy, Lyon.”

“No, not even this bit of journalism I’m going to take a shot at. There’s research, and a lot of bloody figures that must be checked and rechecked. I can’t just write it off the top of my head. But I enjoy it.” He leaned across and took her hands. “And what about you? No marriage—or babies—Henry says you’re still single.”

She looked away and hoped the heavy television makeup covered her self-conscious flush.

He held her hands firmly. “I’ve come up zero too,” he said. “It’s my one regret. There is no one like you, Anne—there never could be.” He paused. “I’d like very much to see you while I’m here. I’ll understand if you can’t—Henry says you and this Kevin Gillmore—”

“You can see me, Lyon,” she said evenly.

“Marvelous! When shall it be?”

“Tomorrow night, if you like.”

“Great. Where can I reach you?”

“Let me call you,” she said quickly. “I’ll be on the outside on some appointments during the day.”

He scribbled down his hotel and number. She noticed he was staying just three blocks from her apartment. She smiled and promised to call him at six.

“We’ll plan on dinner,” he said easily. He stood up. “I’ll leave now—I’m sure you want a chance to freshen up before you tackle this thing on camera. I’m terribly proud of you. Till tomorrow, then ...”

For a long time she sat very still. Lyon was back. Nothing had changed. But it had—she was no longer twenty, and the years had brought changes. There was Kevin, who had given her love, trust—and her career. Kevin needs me, she thought, and in walks Lyon, just for a visit, and I act like an idiot, ready to kick over the traces and forget all the years without a word. Tomorrow I’ll call him and say I’m busy. Or maybe I won’t even call. Let him wait, like I waited so long.

But she knew she would see him.

******

Kevin didn’t mention it until they had finished dinner. Then he casually asked what Lyon was doing in New York. She explained his assignment. Kevin listened intently as he studied his brandy glass. Then he said, “Well, now that I’ve seen him, I can understand. A girl of twenty would be attracted to a man like Lyon. Of course he’s a bit too obvious—his looks and that phony English charm—but I suppose a young, impressionable girl would find him attractive.”

“Yes.” She sipped her drink. “But part of Lyon’s charm is his unawareness of his looks—”

“Ha! Don’t kid yourself!” Kevin said with a trace of irritation. “That bird knows his power. He operates on those looks. There’s not a wasted movement. He also knows how to make men like him. I’d have liked him, if he wasn’t your Lyon Burke.”

She smiled and reached for a cigarette.

“Anne.” His tone was urgent. “Say something. I’m trying to play it cool, like they do in movies, but for God’s sake, help me, give me something to grab at—tell me he left you cold.”

“No, Kevin. I’d be lying if I said that.”

“You’re not going to see him again?”

“If you tell me not to, I won’t.”

“But you want to?” He was pleading for a denial.

She avoided his eyes. “It might be wiser if I did. Wiser for both of us. I might find everything I thought attractive about him kind of childish now. As you say, his appearance hits one—hard—but I don’t know what Lyon Burke is like now. Maybe I never knew ... maybe I dreamed him into an image. Henry warned me about that. But if we want any chance at happiness, you and I, then I have to find out.”

“You mean I could blow the whole thing because this sonofabitch got some newspaper assignment? If he hadn’t, you’d never have seen him again. You know that!”

“Of course I do. Kevin, I care for you ... deeply. We have years together that can’t be dissolved. But Lyon was something that ended on a high note. Maybe I’ll find it ends with a flat one after all, but I’ve got to find out.”

“Don’t, Anne. Don’t see him!” It was a harsh croak.

“Kevin ... please ...” She looked around the restaurant uneasily.

“Anne.” He groped for her hand, almost spilling a glass of water. “Anne, you’re my life. I can’t live without you!”

“You won’t have to, Kevin.”

His eyes held hers. “Is that a promise?”

She saw tears in his eyes. “Promise,” she said miserably.

******

She couldn’t come to terms with herself the following day. She reached for the phone a dozen times to call Lyon and cancel the date. But she never finished dialing. Maybe it would fall flat. Maybe she could just walk away. That would solve everything. She had promised Kevin she wouldn’t leave him, but she hadn’t promised not to see Lyon. She had to see him.

They met at the Little Club at seven. He was sitting at the bar when she came in, and he sprang to his feet and led her to a table. “You’re just not the type to sit at a bar,” he said. He looked at her intently after they had ordered a drink. “Anne, you look marvelous. You haven’t changed a bit. No, that’s not true. You are much more lovely.”

“You’ve held up fairly well too,” she said wryly.

“I often wondered about you,” he said. “Sometimes when I longed for you I’d console myself with crazy fantasies. I’d tell myself you were fat, with six or seven sniffly little brats clinging to your skirts. At least it got me back to the typewriter.”

She laughed. “Oh, Lyon—and I used to pretend you were bald.” It was easy after that. She told him about Jennifer, carefully skirting the real truth. Somehow she felt that Jennifer’s legend must be kept intact—that the body beautiful should not be blemished by cancer. They discussed Neely. Henry had told him about that, but he couldn’t believe it could happen to the bright-eyed Neely he had known.

“She’s such an enormous talent,” he said. “She’s frightfully popular in England. Her pictures were quite wonderful for Hollywood products. In spite of all the tinsel and sugar candy they surrounded her with, she still emerged as a true artist. She will come out of it, won’t she?”

Anne’s eyes clouded. “They say she’s bent for self-destruction, that her kind of illness is never really cured. It may be arrested, and with help she might be able to function again. But she’ll always have that self-destructive urge. At least, that’s what the doctors say.”

He sighed. “Perhaps that’s why I never made it big. Sometimes I think all great artists are a little balmy. I’m much too normal. I fall asleep the minute I hit the pillow, don’t drink to excess and never even take an aspirin.”

She laughed. “I guess I’m second-rate too. Perhaps I smoke too much, but I’m still a one-drink girl, and although I’d never admit it, I sometimes fall asleep right in the middle of the late movie.”

He laughed back. “No, Anne, you’re first-rate—there’s no one like you. There really isn’t, you know. Every girl I met, it always washed out. They just couldn’t stand up to your image.”

They talked through dinner about New York and the changes he noticed. He introduced her to Irish coffee and she became an instant devotee. She was still praising it when he suddenly turned to her.

“It’s all the same, Anne. I want to take you in my arms this moment. I feel as if we’ve never parted.”

“I want to be in your arms, Lyon.”

He grinned. “It’s a deal. But I think it’s best if I paid the check and we got the hell out of here!”

It was unbelievable. To be lying beside him, watching the smoke curl into the light of the bed lamp ... there had been no hesitation, no bridges to cross; they had come together in a fusion of love and desire. This was complete fulfillment. When she held him in her arms she suddenly knew it was important to love—more important than being loved. And she knew this was a decision she had to make. Lyon loved her, in his own way. Was it enough? Would she miss Kevin’s tender, unselfish devotion, the one-sided way he lived for her? With Lyon she would have to be on her toes every second. Was she up to the give and take of this kind of love?

He reached out and stroked her bare back. “It was wonderful, Anne. It always was.”

“For me too, Lyon—but only with you.”

“Anne, there is Kevin Gillmore,” he said quietly. He felt her stiffen and stroked her head. “It’s common knowledge, darling. And everyone knows he wants to marry you.” He paused. “You know I didn’t just happen on the set yesterday, don’t you? I made it a point to look up Jerry Richardson. I wanted to meet this Kevin Gillmore—and I wanted to see you.”

She pulled away and sat up. “What was I supposed to do? Sit around all these years and pray for your return? Lyon ... not a letter, not a word ... nothing.”

“Hush.” He put his fingers across her lips. “Of course I understand. I wanted to write—oh, God, the letters I wrote and never mailed—but that bloody pride of mine ... each book would do it, I’d tell myself. Then I’d return the conquering hero and take my girl away from whatever guy she was with. But I’m not the hero—and Kevin Gillmore is not just a guy. He’s a good man, Anne, and from what I hear he’s head over heels about you.”

She was silent.

“If I had any character, I wouldn’t see you after tonight,” he said.

“Lyon!” There was fear in her voice.

He laughed aloud. “I said if I had any character. I’m afraid I never had very much. And seeing you made whatever shred I had go up in smoke.” Then he said very seriously, “I’ll be here, Anne, for the taking, any time you want me. But that’s all it can be.”

“What does that mean?”

“I return to London after this assignment. I have a new book in the works. The first draft is written.”

“Couldn’t you write here?”

“Possibly. But I couldn’t live, at least not as well. I have a nice flat, and I pick up extra money doing articles. It’s a different life, Anne, but I like it.” Then he added, “And I earn just enough to make it possible to spend those bleak hours at the typewriter, writing what I want to write. It’s a lonely existence, but there’s always the hope that perhaps this is the book that will do it. I believe in my writing and what I’m trying to do, and I have you to thank for this. I’ve lost you because of it—but then, it probably couldn’t have worked any other way ...”

“Why not?” she said stubbornly. “If I hadn’t opened my big mouth that day in the Barberry Room—if I hadn’t insisted that you write—you might have been the biggest manager in town and we’d have children and—”

“And hate one another. No, Anne, a marriage hasn’t a chance when you’re scrambling for success. And it probably wouldn’t have worked if you had meekly submitted to that wild idea about living in Lawrenceville, either. I’m just cut out to be a loner, I guess. But I am so very glad to have this chance to be with you again. I’ll cherish every second you give me, and stretch out all the memories for those rainy British nights when I’m home again.” He took her in his arms, and her hurt evaporated in the incredible wonder of loving him.

******

It was dawn when she reached her apartment. As she slipped the key into the door, she noticed the sliver of light.

“How did you manage to tear yourself away so soon? It’s not morning yet.” Kevin was sitting in the living room, smoking.

She walked over and snatched the cigarette from his mouth. “You haven’t smoked since your heart attack. What are you trying to prove?”

He sneered. “Why the big concern for my health? Seems to me that after tonight I have very little future.”

“Kevin, why did you come here?”

“Because I knew you were with him. Tell me about it. Did he release all those inhibitions? Did you both swing from chandeliers?”

“Stop it! It’s not good for you to carry on like this. Come on—if you want to stay the night, go to bed.”

“Would you go to bed with me tonight?” He saw her stiffen. “If you did, you’d be a wet deck. That’s the name for a girl like that. Well, would you?”

“Kevin ... we haven’t had sex since your heart attack. It’s not that I’ve minded—I understand about your health and ...”

“And my age—go on, say it.”

“Whatever happened tonight is between Lyon and me. It has nothing to do with my feeling for you.”

“Am I supposed to take that? Let Lyon play the stud, and I play the doddering faithful retainer?”

“You are my friend, part of my life ... someone I love deeply. Lyon is something ... different.”

“Well, I won’t stand for it. You’ll have to choose.”

“All right, Kevin,” she said wearily. “If you force me ...”

He grabbed her. “No—no! Anne, don’t leave me!” He began to sob. She wanted to pull away; instead she stroked his head. It was so terrible to see a man fall apart. Was she responsible, or was it his failing health and his age?

“Kevin, I won’t leave you.”

“But you’ll go on seeing him. Do you think I can go on like that? Knowing you come to me from his arms?”

“Kevin—” She groped for the right words. “We both know I was with Lyon. But he’s going back. And he knows about you. He even said you’re quite a guy.”

“That’s the English in him. Don’t you know that? All the English are decadent. He’d probably get a kick out of sharing you.”

She sighed patiently. This wasn’t Kevin speaking. It was his hysterical fear. “Kevin, I’m staying with you.”

“Why? Doesn’t he want you?” She turned and went into the bedroom and began to undress. It was unbelievable. History repeating itself. Kevin had suddenly looked like Allen Cooper—the same cowlike expression and the same childish rage. And once again it was Lyon who was sitting back, demanding nothing and promising nothing, while she was being torn in two. How much did she really owe Kevin? Her relationship with him had been far from thrilling. Yet throughout the entire time she had never given him cause for jealousy or concern. There had been many chances—many men younger and more attractive than Kevin—but she had ignored every advance. She had given him fourteen years of happiness—shouldn’t that balance any obligation she owed him? Yet Kevin needed her. He had sat there all night, smoking. She knew how it was to sit and wait for someone. Suddenly she felt a great surge of tenderness and pity for Kevin. Oh, God, he had looked so old, so vulnerable. She couldn’t hurt him.

She returned to the living room. He was sitting there, staring into space—crumpled, defeated.

She held out her arms. “Kevin, I love you. Get undressed, it’s late. Get some sleep. I’m here—I’ll always be here, as long as you want me.”

He stumbled toward her. “You won’t see him again? You won’t?”

“No, Kevin. I won’t see him ever again.”

For two weeks she fought against calling him. She tried to blot him out of her thoughts. Although he never called her, she knew he was there, waiting. But she called on every bit of self-discipline she had ever known and managed to hold out. There were nights when she was alone, obsessed with the need to phone, to race down the three blocks to his hotel. She’d stand on her terrace, breathing in the balmy night air and looking at the stars. A night like this was made for love—to be with Lyon, not to stand alone like this. And invariably there’d be a call from Kevin, casually checking up on her. He had never done that before, but now he had taken to calling at odd hours.

Often he’d leave her and say pointedly, “Well, my girl, back to my bachelor quarters. Tonight it’s going to be a warm bath and bed for your old man.” Three hours later he would silently let himself into her apartment. “I couldn’t sleep,” he’d say. “May I spend the night here?” She’d smile and pity the relief that flooded his face at finding her home, alone.

She was at “21” with Kevin and one of the new owners of Gillian when Lyon walked in. It was the end of June, one of those sticky, hot nights that suddenly arrive with no warning. The temperature was in the nineties. She had taped commercials all day, and she was tired. And bored. She looked up and saw Lyon swing into the room. He was with what Kevin would call a “dish,” and he didn’t see her as the captain led him to a different section of the room. From her seat she could watch him without being observed. The girl was about nineteen, with coal-black hair that hung to her shoulders. Her tan was heavy, and it was obvious that she had worked at it systematically. She had a pretty face, and her sleazy white dress clung provocatively to her youthful body, its tiny shoulder straps showing an expanse of decolletage. Her hand, with its outrageously long silver fingernails, kept entwining itself in Lyon’s. She hung onto his words. She tossed her hair. At one point she said something and Lyon threw back his head and laughed. Then he leaned over and planted a light kiss on the tip of her nose. Anne felt physically ill. How many nights had he spent with girls like this? All those nights she had lain awake, wanting him, thinking of him, picturing him alone and thinking all she had to do was call ...

It was the worst night she had known in a long time. The depths of her unhappiness frightened her. She had not felt anything so deeply since the old days with Lyon, but now it was as if all her senses had suddenly been awakened—all the emotions she had thought were part of her youth—they weren’t dead, they had just been sleeping, waiting to be activated. She kept her eyes riveted on Lyon and the girl, grateful Kevin was deep in some discussion of stock options.

At last the endless evening was over. As she left she shot a final glance at Lyon. He was giving his undivided attention to a story the girl was telling.

She pleaded a headache, but Kevin insisted on coming up. The moment they were in the apartment he said, “I saw them too.”

“Who?”

“Your lover and the beautiful girl. You sat there, eating your heart out, didn’t you?” His voice was nasty. “Now maybe you know how I feel!”

“Kevin, I’m tired.”

“She could be your daughter, Anne.”

“Come now, Kevin—I’m only thirty-six.”

“Lots of girls have babies at eighteen. Oh, she could be your daughter, all right. See, my pet, your Lyon is still roaring. He can have his pick. In fact, did it ever occur to you that maybe he just laid you for old times’ sake? Out of pity, like you pity me. Well, cheer up—we’re a set, you and I. Two discards. And in a way I’m beginning to pity you. You’re probably still dreaming of that wonderful night of love. Well, it was only a night he tossed to you out of sympathy and guilt.”

His anger grew as he noticed her eyes darken with pain. “Sure, that’s all it was! Did he plead with you to leave me, to marry him? You bet he didn’t! When he marries it will be a dish. You’ve had it, my lady. Sure, you’re a beautiful woman—in your late thirties. But he liked you when you were twenty, and even then he walked out on you. And it was good old Kevin who picked up the pieces. Kevin who made you rich and famous.” He started for the door, then stopped. “You know, I could get a girl of twenty if I wanted. Oh, don’t worry, I’ll stick with you—but the shoe is on the other foot now. I call the shots from now on. Tomorrow you hand in your notice. I’m not sitting around next season while you work. And we’ll take that round-the-world trip we planned—only I’m not sure there’s any point in getting married first. I’ll have to think about that.”

She had been staring at him while he spoke. When he finished, she said, “Kevin, you don’t mean any of this. This isn’t you.”

“Yes, lady, I’ve finally gotten my balls back. All along I’ve been so grateful for your favors—until I saw you tonight. God, what jealousy does to a person. You disintegrated before my eyes. You suddenly looked faded and washed out beside that dish. The lines of anxiety in your face ... my goddess suddenly toppled. I saw a faded blonde gazing in open envy at a stud she’d lost to a better filly.”

“Kevin, please leave. You can’t mean these things.”

“Don’t play the grande dame with me. That’s over. You’re a reject now! Want me to prove it to you? He should be home by now—he couldn’t wait to get that dish in the kip. Would you dare phone him now? Phone him and tell him you want to see him. I’ll clock it. You’ll get the fastest brush in town.”

She started into the bedroom. He ran after her and spun her around. “I’m not through talking. Don’t you walk out on me. Haven’t you been listening? That’s all over, that grande dame act.”

“Kevin, you really hate me, don’t you?”

“No, I feel sorry for you. Like you have for me.”

“If you mean that, please leave—for good, Kevin.”

“Oh no.” He smiled with confidence. “Not until I see you really go down the drain.” He picked up the phone. “Call him. I’m sure you’ve memorized his number. If you don’t, I will. I’ll tell him you didn’t eat any dinner, that you were sick with jealousy. Sure, I’ve memorized his number too. We’ve both been thinking of him for two weeks, haven’t we?” He picked up the phone and started to dial.

She pulled the phone away from him. He shoved her and grabbed it back.

“Kevin!” He had actually dialed and was asking the hotel operator for Lyon Burke.

“All right.” He handed her the phone. “Talk to him. Go on—or I will.”

She took the phone. They were ringing his room. She prayed he wasn’t there. This couldn’t be happening. It was a nightmare. She heard the click ...

“Hello?” It was Lyon.

“Lyon?” Her voice faltered.

There was a pause. “Anne?”

“Go on,” Kevin hissed. “Tell him you want to come over.”

She shot him a beseeching look, and he made a motion to grab the phone. She pulled away. “Lyon ... I’d ... like to come over.”

“When?”

“Now.” There was a fraction of a pause. Then, in a bright voice, he said, “Give me ten minutes to reorganize things a bit, then come directly.”

“Thank you, Lyon. I’ll be there.” She hung up and looked at Kevin. His face was pasty.

“Sure,” he shouted. “I should have known. It’ll be a three-way bit—you, Lyon and the broad. I told you the English were decadent ... and you’ll go along—because you have no choice!”

“Oh, Kevin,” she moaned. “What have we done to each other?”

“I just found I’ve wasted a lot of years of my life on a bum! A bum who’s been passing as a lady.” He walked out, slamming the door.

For a moment she stood motionless, as her anger gave way to mingled feelings of sorrow and relief. Kevin had made the decision. God, what a terrible thing jealousy was—it could transform a strong man like Kevin into an emotional cripple. But she felt no animosity. She was suddenly flooded with relief. She felt almost light-headed, as if a great weight had been lifted. No matter how it turned out with Lyon, she would never have to marry Kevin. That was finished ... she was free!

She freshened her makeup and quickly walked the three blocks to Lyon’s hotel.

The door swung open. “I was beginning to give up hope,” Lyon said.

Her eyes quickly swept the room.

“She left,” he said quietly.

She pretended not to understand.

“I saw you when you were leaving ’21.’ My glorious little date squealed, ‘Oh, isn’t that Anne Welles!’ She adores you on television.”

“Yes, I saw you, Lyon.”

“Good, at least it brought you to me!” He crossed the room and mixed two drinks at a card table that served as a makeshift bar. “You know, it’s a new kind of show business today,” he said. “I confess I don’t understand it. But mine is not to reason why. Connie Masters’ last two records sold in the millions, and the British public adores her. So I have to write about her thrilling life.”

“Who is Connie Masters?”

“The charmer I was with tonight. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of her?” Anne shook her head and he smiled. “We’re the lost generation, you and I. We both think of Dinah and Ella or Neely when someone mentions singers. But Connie Masters is today’s sensation. She’s nineteen, and every picture company is after her, but I can’t listen to one of her records without a stiff drink.”

She smiled. “I know. Every day I hear of people I never heard of before. I guess the teenagers support them.”

“Well, I’ve done my bit for the British press and the music lovers of the world. And your call kept me from serving beyond the call of duty.”

“You mean you would have made love to her?”

“Why not? It gets very lonely sitting and waiting for your call that never comes. Oh, I understand ... I really do. But there she was, all curled up on that very chair you are sitting on, telling me she just adores older men. What was I to do? Turn her out into the hot night?”

Anne laughed. “Come on, Lyon, you’re not that helpless.”

“No, but this new breed catches one off guard—the young barracuda.” He crossed the room and pulled her to her feet. “Now, you’re beautiful, glamorous and dangerous, yet I feel safe with you.” He kissed her and held her close. Their embrace was suddenly shattered by the ringing of the phone.

She smiled. “The barracuda.”

He picked up the receiver. She saw his eyes narrow. Then in a cold voice he said, “I suggest you speak to the lady herself.” He turned to Anne and extended the phone. In answer to her mute question, he said clearly, “Kevin Gillmore.”

“I don’t want to talk to him.” She backed away.

“I suggest you do,” he said, and she was aware that during this exchange he had made no effort to cover the phone. Kevin was listening.

She took the receiver gingerly, as if it had a physical power of its own. “Kevin?”

“Anne! Anne, forgive me! I just told Lyon Burke, something happened to me tonight. I went crazy. Anne, tonight never happened. I didn’t mean a thing I said. Anne, are you listening?”

“Kevin, it’s no good. It’s over.”

“Anne, please ... come home. I didn’t mean a word. You can go on working ... you can do anything you want—” His voice broke. “I’ll marry you tomorrow—or whenever you choose. I’ll just hang on. You call all the shots. I’ll do anything. Please! It was just seeing you look so unhappy because he was with that girl—you never looked at me that way—I guess I went crazy. I wanted to hurt you like you hurt me.” He was actually sobbing. “Please, Anne ... I know I’m old. If you want to see Lyon Burke on the side, I’ll even let you do that—just don’t tell me. You can do anything, just forgive me and don’t go out of my life.” He began to choke.

“Kevin, is anything wrong?”

“No. I guess I walked too fast. I’m at your apartment. I ran all the way. Anne, please ... to Lyon you’re just another lay, but to me—you’re my whole life!”

“Kevin ... we’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Anne, I won’t sleep. Not tonight, with you there, knowing what you’re doing—” She heard him gasp again. “Anne ... please. Tonight ... just come back tonight. Let me sleep in the next bed. Just so I know you’re back. From here in I won’t check on you. Just stay with me. Please Anne ... I can’t fight him—I’m not young or healthy. Please ... please!”

“All right, Kevin.” The phone was like lead in her hand.

“You’ll leave?” The hope in his voice was even more heart-rending than his tears.

“Yes ... right away.” She hung up and turned to Lyon.

“In the middle again?” His back was to her as he freshened his drink.

“Lyon, what should I do?”

He shrugged. “I’d say it was a matter of whom you wish to please. Yourself—or your conscience. What are you searching for? Happiness—or peace of mind?”

“Aren’t they the same?”

“No. Peace of mind does not always come with love. I’m sure you’ll have peace of mind with Gillmore, and a good conscience. With me, you might have to battle that conscience. But then, love is always a bit of a struggle, isn’t it?”

“Are you saying you love me?” she asked.

“Good God, must it be put in neon lights to get through to you? Of course I love you!”

“But how could I know? You’ve never called me during these two weeks, or tried to convince me.”

“I’m talking about love,” he said hotly. “Not begging! Love shouldn’t make a beggar of one. I wouldn’t want love if I had to beg for it, to barter or qualify it. And I should despise it if anyone ever begged for my love. Love is something that must be given—it can’t be bought with words or pity, or even reason. I shall never beg you, Anne. I love you. You must know that. I shall always love you—”

“Lyon, you know I love you. I always have ... I always will ...”

“Then why are we standing here batting the subject around? You’re here, and I want you here.” He smiled but remained across the room.

“But you’re returning to England ...”

“And Kevin is in America.” He smiled. “I was talking about love—you are talking about geography. It sounds very familiar, somehow.”

“But love means planning together ... being together.”

“Love is an emotion. To you it’s a contract with unbreakable riders and rules attached to it.” He took her hands. “Anne, it’s too late for that. Yes, I will return to London, I’ve made my way of life there. You have all this. Perhaps you should go to Kevin. He fits in with your kind of life. The best I could offer you is a few more weeks.”

“Maybe I’d like London, Lyon. Did that ever occur to you?”

“Anne, I’m a writer—maybe not the best, but I work at it. You’re not the eager twenty-year-old girl who typed up my manuscripts. You’d be bored in time, and you’d grow to hate it.”

She turned and ran out of the room. She raced down the hall and rang for the elevator. Perhaps he’d come after her. If he did—The elevator opened. She turned and looked back at his closed, silent door, then stepped into the elevator.

She walked slowly back to her apartment building. When she got there, she deliberately walked past the entrance. She had to think this out. Lyon loved her, but he was offering her no future. Kevin needed her, and was offering her a lifetime of devotion. Kevin put things into contracts, with all the riders she wished—but what good was a contract that paid off in a devotion she didn’t want? She was always forcing Lyon’s hand, crowding him. So what if he didn’t ask her to come to London? She could always follow him. London wasn’t the end of the world. But that would be begging—Lyon would hate that. “Love has to be given”—not pursued.

She returned to the entrance of her building. Kevin was up there, and he needed her. How could she hurt him for just a few weeks of happiness? But suddenly all the wasted years with him came to mind—and all the years just like them that would follow—after Lyon left ... but Lyon was here now—and she had the chance to be with him. Yes, that was the solution. Don’t crowd Lyon—take the few weeks he had to offer and let it end. Then if Kevin still wanted her, all right—they’d be as he said, two rejects. But meanwhile, there was Lyon. And she was going to be with him—every second, every minute—as long as she could!

She turned and walked quickly. Then she began to run. She never stopped running until she reached Lyon’s hotel. The elevator ride was agony. He opened the door—he threw his arms around her and held her close. She clung to him. “Lyon, as long as you are here, I’m here. No questions, no tomorrow—just every second that we can have together now is what will count. I love you.”

He held her face in his hands, looked into her eyes and said quietly, “We’ll make every moment into an hour. I love you, Anne.”

******

She met with Kevin the following day. He looked haggard. She tried to explain how she felt, that she had to see Lyon. After he left, if Kevin still wanted her ... If not ... well, she would understand.

Kevin stared at her silently. Then his face became splotched with color. He paced up and down her living room. “Why, you’re as decadent as your English stud!” His anger seemed to flood him with strength. He slammed out of her apartment, shouting that he would make her pay for this humiliation.

This time Kevin did not call back with tearful entreaties. In the days that followed he took childish pains to appear everywhere with a variety of well-known glamour girls. Kevin, who hated nightclubs, now sought the most prominent ringside table and made a delayed entrance with the most flamboyant-looking girl he could find. The moment a new starlet arrived in town, her name was linked with Kevin’s. There was an inside joke around that Kevin read Celebrity Service and rushed to meet the planes to book a date with the newest arriving celebrity.

His final and most desperate act was his attempt to cancel Anne’s contract with Gillian. Since he still sat on the board of directors, he insisted he had a right to protect the image of the company he had created. He claimed Anne was “over the hill,” that the Gillian Girl should be younger, fresher, a new face.

His protests forced a board of directors’ meeting. It was an unfortunate move for Kevin. He was outvoted, and Anne received a new two-year contract with a ten-thousand-dollar raise. And it was an exclusive television contract—another victory for Anne, who had been fighting against continuing with the strenuous schedule of newspaper and magazine advertising.

Anne was aware of Kevin’s actions, but she could never hate him. She felt nothing now but pity—and a heavy sadness that it had to end this way. In the weeks that followed, the excitement of her relationship with Lyon surpassed any emotion she had ever experienced. Lyon enjoyed her casual fame, the instant recognition by fans, but she played it down and concentrated her attention on his work. How was the series coming? She listened to his ideas on the way he hoped to present them. He didn’t want to pan television in America, but he wanted to do the articles in a tongue-in-cheek style. She read his copy and often offered valuable suggestions.

Although they maintained separate residences, Lyon spent every night at her apartment. One night he said, “I shall pick you up at seven, but first I must go to the closet for a change of clothes.” From then on they jokingly referred to his hotel room as The Closet. But as the weeks passed, she knew his assignment was drawing to an end. He hadn’t mentioned leaving, but she knew the time was slowly running out. She felt the desperation closing in on her—heavy and oppressive.

And then, one evening in July, she was suddenly filled with new hope.

They were having dinner in a garden restaurant in the Village. “This was a wonderful suggestion,” Lyon said. He looked at the clear sky and smiled. “This is what I miss about New York when I’m in London—the marvelous weather. We could never be sure of an evening like this—there is always the inevitable rain.”

“It’s the first nice thing you’ve ever said about New York.” She kept her voice light.

“I love you so much I’m beginning to see some of its finer points,” he said. “But how do you feel about rain? We have a great deal of it in London, you know.”

It was happening! He didn’t want to leave her. She had to be careful—she mustn’t force anything. It had to be his idea. She studied the ash on her cigarette. “I’ve never been to London.”

“Think about it.” And that was all he said.

It was all she could think about. She discussed it with Henry.

“It would never work,” Henry insisted. “I’ve seen Lyon’s flat. I visited him last year. He thinks it’s a palace, but there’s no central heating, Anne, and only four tiny rooms—a walkup.”

“But I have all the money in the world. We could have the best apartment—”

“Haven’t you had your lesson?” Henry said sternly. “No one pays Lyon’s way—you’d have to live on what he makes.”

“Then I will,” she said with determination. “I’ll live wherever he wants—I can’t live without him, Henry. I’d be happy with him anywhere—even Lawrenceville.”

“What about your contract with Gillian? If you broke it you could never work on TV again.”

“Henry, how much am I worth?”

“Over a million.”

“Then why should I work?”

“And what will you do in London?”

“I’ll be with Lyon.”

“Look, Anne—you’re not a kid about to plunge into a new life. Neither is Lyon. He’s set in his little world over there. You’ll have no friends—he sits at that typewriter all day—what will you do?”

“I don’t know—I only know I can’t live without him.”

Henry was thoughtful for a moment, then he said, “There’s only one solution. You’ve got to keep him in New York.”

“But how? His assignment is finished. And he likes London.”

“Stall for time. Each day that he stays here, he gets more used to New York. Let me think. I’ll call a few guys I know at Barter Publications—maybe we can get him an assignment to write a few articles for their magazines. Only it has to look like an accident.”

“What good would that do?”

“He’d stay on for a while, and time will work for you.”

******

It was Neely who accidentally came up with the idea. Anne had driven out for her bi-weekly visit, and they were sitting on the well-kept grounds and talking. It was uncomfortably warm, but Neely wanted to be outside. She was fat, but she seemed undeniably well on the road to recovery. She was at Ash House, only one step removed from the outpatient clinic.

“When I get there,” she said happily, “I’ll be able to come to New York for weekends.”

“Neely, do you think that’s wise?”

“Sure. It has to work that way. Geez, you can’t be penned up like this for six months and then suddenly be turned loose. They got to do it gradual. First you get to the out-patient cottage. Then, after a month there, they let you go into the local town one night to a movie or to the beauty parlor. Then, if that goes all right, they try you with one weekend back in New York. You have to come back here on Monday and they check you to see if you’re disturbed. After a while, they let you go home for a week. Then they let you go for good, but you still have to see a headshrinker they assign you to every day. It’s the pressure that hits you on the outside that you have to worry about.”

“You mean your work?” Anne asked.

“No, I mean just pressure. Here, there’s no such thing. If I sleep, I sleep. If I don’t—so what? So I won’t make a gorgeous mosaic ashtray in O.T. and I might be off in my badminton game. And I eat what I please. Geez, I weigh a hundred and sixty, but who cares? And Anne—I sing. Christ, I sing like a fucking canary.”

“Oh, Neely, I’m so glad. I knew you would.”

“The darndest thing happened. Once every month they have a dance. It’s a real camp. The male kooks get all caked up, and we get all caked up, and we meet in the gymnasium—under supervision, of course. I go because I have no choice. If I refuse I get a bad mark. Well, they have a three-piece band, and one night I got up and fooled around a little. It wasn’t great, because the piano player is a schoolteacher from the village who plays melody with both hands. But I sang, and suddenly a real sick kook—a guy all gray, with a nutty look—shuffled over. He was a chronic, and I’d never seen him before—the chronics rarely come. They’re the incurables, the ones who are kept here for life on a custodial basis. Boy, you have to be a rich kook for that—and we have some. Cottage Eve is for the women incurables and Cottage Adam for the men. Naturally, they’re separated from us by twelve acres—in fact, we never see a male kook except at the dances. Well, anyway, this real burnt-out looking male kook shuffled over. One nurse rushed to get him, but Dr. Hall was there and motioned to let him alone. Turned out he hadn’t talked in two years, and the doctor wanted to see what he was up to. So anyway, he ambles over to me—I’m singing one of Helen Lawson’s old numbers—and he just stands there.

“I keep singing—I start doing some of my old songs—and suddenly he begins singing with me, in the greatest harmony you ever heard. It was so wonderful I wanted to die. Anne, my spine tingled—this cat could really sing. And there was something familiar about him. We sang together for an hour, and everyone clapped like crazy—even Dr. Hall and Dr. Archer. And when it was over, this kook touched my cheek with his hand and said, ’Neely, you always had it—we both did.’ Then he shuffled off. I just stood there. Then Doc Hall came over to me and said, ’He’s been here two years, deteriorating all the time. It’s been a well-kept secret, but I see you know one another. Please don’t talk about it. We call him Mr. Jones.’ Well, I had no idea who he was, but I’ve gotten cagey in this creep joint, and I can outsmart Doc Hall by now. So I played along. I said, ’What shall I call him? He calls me Neely.’ And Doc Hall says, ‘Oh, you can call him Tony, but stick with the Jones.’”

“Tony?” Anne didn’t understand.

“Tony Polar!” Neely exclaimed. He’s got some kind of a brain illness he was born with. Lucky he and Jen never had a kid—it probably would have gone nuts too.”

The abortion! Jennifer had known! It was a secret she had never revealed. Tears came to Anne’s eyes.

“Neely,” she said. “Jen never told anyone, but she must have known. Please—don’t you tell anyone.”

“Why? He’s not married to Jen. She’s dead—remember?”

“But she died without ever telling anyone. She wanted it to stay a secret. For her sake and his ... please.”

“Okay, who would care anyway?”

“Well, when you get out of here it might make great gossip. But don’t. Tony just faded from the scene. It’s been rumored that he’s in Europe, but no one knows and by now they don’t care. Let’s keep it that way.”

“Sure,” Neely said agreeably. “But it’s sure no secret about me. I got an offer to do a two-part story for a magazine. They’ll pay me twenty thousand for it. George Bellows is going to get someone to ghostwrite it for me.”

“George Bellows? How did he happen to get in touch with you?”

“Well, you’ve seen the columns. They’ve been hinting that I’m fat and can’t sing, or that I’m thin and can’t sing. So I wrote in that they were half right—I’m fat and never sang better. Then I got Doc Hall to let me make a tape here and I sent it to Henry Bellamy and asked him to play it for the press. He musta turned it over to George, because the next thing I knew George came to visit me. And he got me this offer. He wants to handle me when I get out. He’s trying to raise the money to buy Henry out, you know.”

“Lyon says the Johnson Harris office is going to absorb Henry’s company.”

Neely shrugged. “If Georgie can meet the price of Johnson Harris in a few weeks he’ll buy the company. He might manage it, if he can con that alcoholic wife of his into parting with some loot. She’s worth millions.”

Anne’s head was spinning. “What alcoholic wife? George isn’t married.”

“George is a cozy one. He was married from the very start—when we first met him. He’s been married to this dame for twenty years. But he did it for the business, he said. He thought she’d conk off in a few years. But even though her liver is shot, she’s still on the scene and controlling the money. I don’t know where he’ll get it—unless he gives her a nudge over the hill in the next few weeks. And if I know George, he’s not above it. I’ve always hated the bastard.”

“At least he got you this offer.”

“Well, he’ll get his commission. I told him I could use the twenty G’s. You’ve been paying my freight here, and I have to pay you back. And I’ll need some money when I get on the outside. But I still hope George doesn’t wind up with Henry’s business. He gives me the creeps.”

The idea began to form when she left Neely. As she drove home it became a certainty. Henry said she needed time, and this would help. She brought the car to the garage and put in a call to Henry. She had to see him for dinner, right away, and they agreed to meet at a small restaurant on Fifty-third Street.

“Why not?” Henry said, after she told him. “Lyon would be a natural to write Neely’s story. He knew her from the early days. And it would buy you another month, at least.”

“But you’ve got to sell George on the idea, and George has to present it to Lyon so that I have nothing to do with it.”

Lyon was delighted with George’s offer. But he refused to visit Neely. He wanted to remember her as she was, as the fresh-faced child. He had to, he insisted, to write it from that angle. He spoke to her on the phone and sent her copy to approve, and Neely was ecstatic with the way the story was shaping up. The writing went well, and Lyon was ready to do the final rewrite by the end of September.

Early in October, Henry met Anne at “21” after another hurried summons. Her eyes were sparkling as she presented her newest proposition. He listened carefully, then threw up his hands. “You’re a real Panzer division—but it won’t work.”

“Why?”

“He doesn’t want to own an agency. I know it. Lyon likes writing.”

“But Henry, you can try. Tell him you don’t want the Johnson Harris office absorbing a business you’ve put your life’s blood into. Please—try.”

“But Anne, even if I tell him that I’m making the loan, he has to find out eventually.”

“I’ll worry about that when the time comes. Henry, there isn’t a moment to lose.”

******

Lyon sipped his coffee thoughtfully. “I’m flattered, Henry ... but I’m not your man.”

The waiter refilled Henry’s coffee cup. He waited until the man moved away before he answered. “Look, Lyon, I gave my life to this outfit. The Johnson Harris office doesn’t deserve the roster of stars I’ve built up. George Bellows doesn’t deserve going down the drain either. Oh, they’ll take him on, make him a vice president. But they’ll kick him upstairs to such an unimportant position he’ll be forced to quit. I tell you I haven’t slept nights. That’s why I’m offering to lend you the money to buy the agency with George.”

“But why me? Why not lend George the money?”

“Why do you think George hasn’t been able to raise it?” Henry asked.

“It’s a big bundle, I suppose.”

“No. The word is out—George can’t handle it alone. He’s a great businessman, but he’s not good with people. Half the stars will leave. But if I appoint you—if we do it right, with big publicity ... start with small column rumors at first ... how I sent for you . . . then let it build ... listen, enough people still remember how great you were.”

Lyon shook his head. “I appreciate it, and I’m flattered. But I have to pass. I’m happy in London. I don’t want the pressure of an agency. I hate the rat race, and I enjoy writing.”

“And what about Anne?”

Lyon studied his cigarette. “She’s the only consideration. Does she know about your offer?”

“No.” Henry hoped he sounded convincing. “Because I think Anne would want you to make the decision without pressure.”

“But it’s such a whopping loan, Henry.”

“I don’t need the money. I just want out. My last electrocardiogram convinced me. But I’d like to see the agency continue. You can pay me back a little each year. I’m not worried.”

“Would you feel very badly if I refused?”

“Yes I would, Lyon. You walked out on me once when I needed you. I need you now. I want you to carry on the agency with George.”

1962

On January second, 1962, Bellamy and Bellows officially became Bellamy, Bellows and Burke. George was president, Lyon was vice president and Henry retired completely, but Lyon was adamant about keeping his name in the firm. There was a champagne party for the press and clients, and this turned into a double celebration when Lyon announced that he and Anne were getting married the following day.

When the party was in full swing, Henry took her aside. No one noticed their little conference.

“He’ll have to find out the truth next year,” Henry whispered.

“Why does he ever have to know?”

“Anne, next year you’ll have to file joint taxes. Then he’ll learn that you loaned him the money to buy the business. After all, he’s paying interest on the loan, and you’ll have to declare it.”

“But why couldn’t you lend him the money then? And I’d lend it to you, and—”

“And we’d all wind up in trouble with the Bureau of Internal Revenue. Anne, I don’t have the kind of money sitting around that you have. I haven’t made two thousand a week clear and been given large blocks of stock in Gillian. And I didn’t have a guy like Henry Bellamy invest a hundred G’s in A.T.&T. a long time ago and watch it double. If I’m taking a capital gain I can’t invest my own money—oh, what the hell, you wouldn’t understand. But I can’t use my own money to buy my own business. By the way, I sold out all your Gillian. It’s for the best—it’s gone up to triple what the company is worth and is due for a big drop. I also had to unload half of your A.T.&T. You’ll never starve, but you’ve got a lot riding on this business. So it’s no little toy. Lyon and George better make good—three quarters of your savings are in it.”

“Next year, when Lyon finds out, how do you think he’ll take it?” she asked.

“Depends. If he’s happy, if the business is going well and he’s back in the groove, he’ll probably laugh it off. After all, how can a guy be angry because a girl he loves tricked him into marrying her by secretly loaning him money?”

“The only thing that worries me is his gratitude to you,” she said. “He keeps saying he can’t let you down and talking about how much you must believe in him to make such an offer. He said he really didn’t want to take over the company, but your belief in him made it impossible to turn you down.”

“Nuts. I notice he didn’t waste much time in asking you to marry him. I’m sure that was the deciding factor.”

“Maybe. Anyway, at least I’ve got a year before the trouble starts. And as you say, there might be no trouble. But I don’t care if there is. I can’t live without him, Henry. I tried for fifteen years, and it wasn’t living. I’d bribe, lie, cheat, anything—just so long as I have Lyon. That’s all that counts. Just pray for me when the big secret comes out.”

“Listen, if I know you, you’ll be pregnant by then, the business will be booming and Lyon will be secretly delighted that you pulled some strings to make his dreams come true.”

******

They were married in Henry’s apartment the following day. Judge Hellman, a close friend of Henry’s, officiated, and George and his wife were witnesses. Anne and Lyon rushed off for a four-day honeymoon in Palm Beach. It was agreed they would live in Anne’s apartment. Lyon and George were each to draw seven hundred dollars a week and expenses; the profits would remain in the company, with bonuses distributed at the end of each fiscal year.

Within two months Lyon had signed several of the top English stars. They had also taken away some performers from other agencies. They took on some added manpower. Lyon wanted to set up a California office, but George was more cautious.

“Let’s evaluate it carefully,” he said. “I’ll agree that we’re loaded with clients. But the really big money comes in putting together television packages. We have to get a few jumbos, sell them on TV and tie up the package. We need a Carol Burnett, a Danny Thomas, a Judy Garland ...”

“I agree,” Lyon said quickly. “But we can’t get them. They’ve all got excellent management. Besides, that’s the easy way. I think we should build our own jumbos—that’s real management. Henry did that with Helen Lawson. Now if we create a star, every other star will want to sign with us.”

George looked over the list. “There’s no one with us that has the potential.”

Lyon was thoughtful. “If Peter Shay’s picture with Metro is as good as the shooting script, we’re bound to get a three-picture deal after that. Perhaps we could build him into—”

George shook his head. “He’s a character comedian. We need a guy with romantic appeal, or a big comic, or a woman. Besides, Peter will keep commuting between here and England—you know the English. No insult,” George added quickly. “But no matter how well they do here, they run back to that wet little island with our loot.”

Lyon smiled. “That wet little island is a swinging place. One can be quite happy over there.”

“Sure. Home is where the heart is. But that doesn’t help us. Now, I have a germ of an idea. Someone we could get, and if we built her into a star we could really write our own ticket. Neely O’Hara.”

Lyon grimaced. “Nothing is worth that. Besides, she’s still at Haven Manor. And let’s face it, George, she’s washed up.”

“Someone like Neely is never washed up. The public identifies with a loser. They feel they’ve gone through all the tragedies with her. She destroyed herself at the height of her talent. People talk about her as if she’s dead. They think she can never make it again. That’s all to our good. Because if we bring her back and put her on top, then we make it, because we’ve accomplished the impossible. Then you watch how the stars leave GAC, CMA, William Morris, Johnson Harris. They’ll figure if we could do this for Neely O’Hara, think what we could do for them. Stars are a funny breed—they’re long on talent and short on gratitude.”

Lyon was not convinced. “But with Neely, we’re not dealing with just a has-been, we’re dealing with a girl who is emotionally sick, who could fly apart at any time. Anne says she’s quite overweight—and she’s not exactly eighteen.”

“She’s thirty-three, and I’ll go along with everything you say. But—she’s also the goddamdest talent around. I’ve got some tapes she made just last week at a local recording place up there. She’s an out-patient now, and she came to stay with my wife and me last weekend. She’s fat as a pig—but she can sing!”

Lyon shrugged. “But it will take a year to slim her down. and she might crack under the strain. She did before.”

“She doesn’t get thin. That’s the point. Let her stay fat. She sings—that’s all that matters.”

“And what do we do with a fat singer?”

“We book her in concerts. Do you know the money in one-night concerts all over the country? Lena Horne, Garland, Liberace—they all clean up. People will come to see Neely if for nothing more than curiosity. In one year her concerts alone will pay for our office. Our other clients will be gravy. And if we keep her functioning for a year, the stars will come to us begging.”

“If you want to give it a whirl, go ahead,” Lyon said. “But it’s your baby. I’ll take care of the office while you launch America’s new sweetheart.”

“It’s not that easy,” George said slowly. “She’s not crazy about me. And my wife isn’t a good influence on Neely.” He paused. “My wife has a drinking problem. But Neely likes you, and she’s under heavy obligation to Anne—”

“One second,” Lyon said quickly. “Anne works hard. Neely O’Hara is the last thing we need in our life.”

“All I’m asking is for you to make the pitch to her to sign with us, then I’ll do the dirty work. I’ll handle the publicity and set up the bookings. I’ll travel with her. All you have to do is make the original offer. She’s ready to leave the fruit farm any time now. We’ll get her a hotel suite. She has no money, so the office will pay for it—in fact, we’ll pay for everything, including her arrangements and rehearsals. We’ll keep a maid with her night and day—I know just the dame, a Danish masseuse who’s strong as an ox—and we’ll keep books on every dime spent. When she starts to work we’ll deduct it from each pay check until we get back every cent we put up. If she flops on us—well, it’s a legitimate tax deduction.”

“It’s a pretty big gamble.”

“We’ve little to lose, and the publicity would probably be worth the few thousand it will cost. Besides, if she hits big she’ll be able to pay Anne back. You realize your wife has been footing her bills. She owes Anne close to twenty thousand dollars.”

Lyon shook his head. “I don’t like it, but if you want to go through with it I’ll go along. With the understanding that it’s your ball game. I’ll make the initial offer, but from there on, you take over.”

George nodded. “Watch me. I’ll send our little blimp all the way to the moon—and she’ll carry us along.”

******

Anne let herself into the apartment and switched on the air conditioner. She was sorry it was the maid’s day off. It was hot and humid, a record-breaking heat wave. She rushed to the bathroom and was violently ill. Then she put a cold towel on her forehead. She smiled wryly. Everyone gets morning sickness, she thought—I get evening sickness. She was positive she was pregnant. Ten days late. Of course, she couldn’t be sure. She had been two weeks late in February, and she and Lyon had celebrated—then she had awakened with the familiar cramps. This time she hadn’t told Lyon. And just yesterday this nausea had begun, at five-thirty both days. Oh please, God, let it be true, she prayed. Everything was so wonderful—and now a baby! It would be a girl baby—a girl who looked just like Lyon.

She was frightened about her happiness. No one had a right to be this happy. Her only tinge of uneasiness was the thought of income-tax time, when Lyon would learn the truth about the transaction. But the business was going well, and she’d have the baby by then. Henry was sure he’d forgive the deception. But there was never anything about Lyon one could take for granted.

They had gone out together to see Neely, and Lyon’s enigmatic smile had barely concealed his shock when Neely waddled forth to greet them. She was distorted with weight—her eyes had disappeared in the explosion of her cheeks, and she had no neck—but she sparkled with the enthusiasm of the old Neely. It was incongruous to see the childish eagerness break through the mammoth mass of flesh.

Neely had signed immediately. She’d wrinkled her nose when Lyon refused all credit and named George as the genius of the operation. She didn’t like George, but since Lyon was a full partner and Anne was her best friend, she had been delighted to sign. Within one week she was set up in a small midtown residential hotel with Christine, the enormous Danish watchdog. Christine was not fat, just immense—she looked capable of swimming the Channel. And she had vowed she would pummel Neely into great shape.

“Neely doesn’t have to get thin,” Anne had said quickly. “There must be no pressure about Neely’s appearance. All she has to do is concentrate on singing.” Christine had also been warned to watch for pills and alcohol—and for two hundred dollars a week, Christine promised twenty-four-hour service. So far she seemed to be keeping her promise.

Anne left the bathroom. She switched on the light in the living room and poured herself a drink of brandy, hoping it would steady her stomach. Neely was working hard, rehearsing four hours a day, and George had already launched the publicity buildup. Neely’s first concert was booked in Toronto, which was far enough from the local critics so that no bad reviews would reach New York. Neely would have a chance to break in her act.

She looked at the apartment wistfully. It was beautiful, but if she was pregnant they’d have to move. And she’d be let out of her contract with Gillian on the “act of God” clause. She’d be glad to be free. It would give her time to find a new apartment and furnish it. How would she do the nursery? A surge of excitement made her almost dizzy. Oh, God, let it be true!

Two weeks later her hopes were confirmed. At first Lyon took the news with mixed feelings. He was delighted, but it would revolutionize their way of life. Anne would have to stop working the end of June—the baby was due in the middle of January, and her waistline had already thickened an inch. But once she assured him how easily everything would run, his doubts vanished and he joined in her enthusiasm.

In the middle of June they flew to Toronto to hear Neely’s concert. Anne sat in the darkened auditorium sick with fear. So much rested on this appearance. George and Lyon were thinking of their investment, but she realized what a setback it could be for Neely if the engagement was not a success.

Neely had seemed relaxed and calm backstage. She laughed and said she had nothing at stake, nothing to lose—she could always go back to the funny farm and make ashtrays. George was knuckle-snapping with nerves, and Lyon’s eyes were narrowed with anxiety.

The lights went down and a full orchestra broke into Neely’s theme, a hit song from one of her pictures. The heavy curtain parted and Neely came out on the bare stage. She was in a plain, black, street-length dress. Her legs were still good, and the black dress partially concealed her vast bulk. But there was an audible gasp from the audience, who had unconsciously envisioned her in the image of her early movie days. Neely heard it and grinned.

“I’m real fat,” she said heartily. “But so are a lot of opera singers. Only with me, you’re not gonna get opera. I’m just here to sing my heart out for you—and my heart is big and fat too, so if you like, I’ll do a lot of singing.”

The applause was deafening. Neely was home before she began. Her voice was clear, true and haunting. A mass hypnotism took hold of the audience. They went into a frenzy welcoming Neely back into their hearts. Anne had never heard such an ovation. It was the same in Montreal. She broke all house records. In Detroit she was sold out weeks before she arrived. By then the New York newspapers were filled with accounts of her comeback, but George wisely kept her on the road. He traveled with her until September, while Lyon handled the office in New York.

Anne had obtained her release from Gillian, and she used her new freedom to furnish the large apartment she had found. Her pregnancy was obvious now, but each fluttering movement of the life within her added to her happiness. Gillian had wanted to give her a leave of absence, but she had insisted her resignation be permanent. And even though her mind was on the future, she felt a small thrill of satisfaction when they decided on the policy of using different girls every week. It had been impossible to replace her.

At last George felt Neely was ready for New York. The opening was set for November. They took over a legitimate theatre and booked her on a two-a-day policy, a one-woman concert on Broadway. A week before she opened, her entire three-week engagement was sold out.

Neely’s New York opening was traumatic in its sentimental excitement and success. The audience cheered in damp-eyed hysteria, welcoming back their wayward child. And Anne noticed that some of Neely’s features were once again beginning to emerge from her face. She was still fat, but no longer grotesque—Christine had pummeled off thirty pounds. Her neck was once more in evidence, though she still had two chins. But after one song, the magic of Neely’s voice made everybody forget everything else.

The trouble began the second week of the New York engagement. George and Lyon were trying to sort out the most lucrative offers. There were television guest shots, a picture offer and proposals for several Broadway shows, but Lyon insisted they stick with the concerts.

“Another year at least,” he argued. “Maybe we can take off twenty more pounds. We’ll never get her sylphlike again—we can’t chance her dieting—but the rigors of performing, plus Christine, can accomplish wonders. Then we can discuss pictures and television.”

“We have to take a picture or a Broadway show,” George said doggedly. “She refuses to travel any more.”

“But I just booked Los Angeles, San Francisco and the Palladium in London,” Lyon said.

George shrugged. “We had a big hassle last night. She’s on top, so let’s face it—she’s a shit-heel again. The old star sickness is beginning to appear. No more gratitude, just power. She told me she wants to stay in one place. Which I suspect really means our girl wants to get laid.”

“Good God, who would want her?” Lyon asked.

George laughed. “Listen, that’s been my headache all these months. We forget, our blimp is still a human being. Maybe they fed her saltpeter on the funny farm, but she’s raring to go now. For a while we had a sax player who must have dug distortion. He kept her happy until he left the band. Left? I think he ran for his life. She found a few one-night stands, but now she’s had it. She told me she wants an apartment and a steady guy, one who’ll always be around when she wants him. I have a hunch the Johnson Harris office is behind this. They’ve probably sent one of their Steve Stunnings in the black suits and tight pants to kiss her hand and make with the compliments. I think she’s looking for an out with us.”

Lyon smiled. “Let her go. If the Johnson Harris office wants to buy out her contract, let’s take it—for half a million.”

“I thought of that,” George said, “but we can’t throw away the bait when the fish are nibbling. I have a lunch date with Paul Elsom tomorrow.”

Lyon whistled. “That would really start the ball going.”

George nodded. “His last two pictures have outgrossed everything around. If we get him, we get half the stars in Hollywood. With MCA unloading talent management, the field is wide open. All their stars have made short-term agreements everywhere. I’ve put out feelers, but Neely is our bait. We’ve got to keep her.”

“Well, go in there and pitch,” Lyon urged.

“I’ve pitched. Look, Lyon, let’s face it, she’s never liked me. That’s for openers. She had no choice in the beginning. Now she’s hot, so now she can afford not to like me. She called me a greasy pig last night. Imagine that cow calling me a pig. No, Lyon—it’s your turn now.”

******

Lyon sat in Neely’s dressing room. The matinee was almost over. He stared at the telegrams pasted around the mirror. Every great star in the business had sent congratulations and good wishes. He heard the stupendous applause, the orchestra playing the curtain-call music. He tensed himself for battle.

Neely was happily surprised when she found him in the dressing room. “Thank God that pig partner of yours stayed away. We had a whopper of a fight last night.” She accepted a large glass of beer from Christine and gulped it down. “Whew! That tasted just great. Want some, Lyon?”

“No thanks. How about dinner?” he asked.

“Great. Anne joining us?”

“No, just the two of us.”

She laughed merrily. “Georgie sent in the first team, huh? Well, I’m still not gonna travel any more. But I’ll have dinner with you. Where can we get decent escargots?”

“Let’s go over to Louise’s. Louise can make anything.”

“Great. Can I dunk there? I want gobs of garlic butter and I want black toast and I want to sop it up. That’s the nice part of doing a one-woman show—I have no leading man who will cringe at the smell.” Then she added sadly, “And I have no guy to worry about after the show, either.”

“That will come soon enough,” Lyon said. “You’ve got New York at your feet.”

“That’s just it. But I’ve got no one in my arms. I want a guy. And I’m gonna be choosy from now on. I’m not exactly a size ten, but I’m not a freak. And it’s not just getting laid—I want someone who cares about me, someone I can respect ... someone to love.”

“Let’s talk about it over the escargots,” he suggested. Neely ordered two dozen escargots. Lyon toyed with six and listened to her complaints. He had to admit she had an honest gripe—she had no life other than performing.

“Neely.” He reached out and took her hands. “I can see your side of it. Just do Hollywood, Frisco and London. Then we’ll settle you here, and perhaps take a picture or a Broadway show. I’ll hustle around. If we find the right vehicle we could open in the fall. A Broadway musical would be a perfect move.”

“Who’d go to California and London with me?” she asked.

“George, naturally.”

“Forget it,” she said with determination.

“Now look, you and George have had words, but he’s not a bad sort. Neely, your entire success was his idea.”

“There’d have been no success if I hadn’t had the talent,” she said sullenly.

“Naturally, but George had the vision to see it, to believe in you.”

“And you didn’t?”

“To be honest, no. I was doubtful.”

“You thought I didn’t have it any more?”

“I didn’t think of the talent part. I thought of the grind. To me, your comeback brought visions of dieting, strain and nerves. It was George who insisted the public would accept you as you were. And he was right.”

Neely dropped the piece of bread she had been about to sop in the butter sauce. She pushed the plate away. “You talk about me as if I’m a freak.”

“Come now, Neely, you know what I mean. I think you’re marvelous—a great talent and a delightful personality.”

“But a fat slob, huh?”

“No, but not quite reed thin. Not like you were in pictures.”

“I guess no man could really fall for me looking like this,” she said. “I know the twins stared at me when they came to Detroit. God, they’re handsome kids. I’m glad they live with Ted. It almost killed me when he got custody while I was in the funny farm, but I guess he’s straightened out pretty good. His marriage seems to be working. I still think he’s a switch hitter, but the boys don’t know. I’ll never forget their faces when they saw me, though. Bud—he’s the taller one—he said, ’Gee, Mom, we saw one of your pictures on the Late Show, but you sure look different now.’ “

“You don’t need to be thin,” Lyon insisted.

“I could be thin if I had a reason to be,” she said sadly. “I can’t get thin under pressure from a studio—but I can for love. Like when the studio yelled at me to stay thin, I became a sneak eater. But when I first met Ted and fell for him and he said to drop fifteen pounds, I did, just like that. Because I wanted to, to please him. That’s why I want to stay here, Lyon. I want to fall in love, to find a guy. I hate what I see in the mirror.”

“Neely, your voice and personality are what make you, not a waistline,” Lyon insisted.

She shook her head. “I love pretty clothes. I don’t want to keep wearing a plain black dress on the stage. But I have to, this way. It kind of hides things. But I have no incentive to get thin. I have to find a guy—then I’ll get thin and love myself.”

“Do Hollywood, San Francisco and London,” he urged. “The rest will come.”

She was thoughtful for a moment. Then she said, “Okay ... if you come along instead of George.”

“Neely, how can I?”

“Look, I can’t stand George. If I have to look at that moon face of his day in and day out, I’ll vomit. He can’t even play gin rummy. Do you play gin?”

“Like Nick the Greek. But Neely, I can’t leave. Anne is terribly pregnant. The baby is due in six weeks.”

“Oh ... I forgot.” Suddenly she brightened. “Postpone my dates. Book ’em after the baby is born. I could stand a little rest anyway.”

“I couldn’t leave Anne then. Not with a new baby.”

“Anne could come with us. Listen, I had twins. I know. A good nurse is all they need the first few months. They don’t even see until they’re three months old.”

“Let me think about it,” he said.

******

It was easy to put off the Palladium. Lyon switched the booking to the middle of February. But the Los Angeles and San Francisco dates were impossible to change. Neely had to open there over Christmas and New Year’s. Lyon feverishly tried to keep the problem from Anne, but Neely told her.

She had dropped by to see the new apartment. Everything was finally in place. Anne, looking ungainly in her pregnancy, showed Neely every room with pride, especially the nursery.

They settled in the den. Anne sipped some sherry and Neely had a beer. A light snow had begun to fall, and Anne started the fireplace going. “Our first fire in the fireplace,” she said. “Make a wish, Neely.”

“Why?”

“You always make a wish on something you do for the first time.”

“Then I wish you’d have your baby tonight,” Neely said.

“Why? I’m not due for at least a month.”

“I know, but I won’t go to Los Angeles unless Lyon goes, and he won’t leave until the baby is born and you can come.”

Anne knew there was trouble between Neely and George, but this was the first she had heard of the change in bookings. She listened while Neely explained.

“But I wouldn’t go to London, even in February. I couldn’t leave my baby,” she said.

“Sure you can,” Neely argued. “It won’t even be human by then.”

“It’s human to me now,” Anne said hotly. “Every time it moves inside me I mentally blow it a kiss.”

“They’re just blobs the first few months, Anne. Honest. All that crap about them smiling at you—that’s just gas. The doctor told me. They just see light and blurs. They don’t recognize you or focus until they’re about three months old. A good nurse can handle a new baby better than you can.”

“I’ve waited too long for this baby, Neely. And it’s been worth the wait, just to realize I have something of Lyon inside me that we’ve created out of love. I’ll never leave our baby.”

“Suppose Lyon has to travel? After all, he can’t stay put in New York forever.”

“Then we’ll travel together, the three of us.”

“Well, I won’t go to California without him.”

“Neely, please ... I can’t be without Lyon on Christmas. And it’s too risky for me to travel.”

“What about me?” Neely asked. “Does everything have to be for you? You’ve got everything. You’ve always had everything. You wind up with money, the man you love and now a baby. I’ve got nothing—just work. I’ve made it again, but that’s all I’ve got. And I’m working to pay you back.”

“Neely, I’ve never asked you for the money,” Anne protested.

“I know, but I told George and Lyon I wanted to pay you back. After the California date, you’ll be paid in full. Meanwhile, I’m making money for your husband’s office, and you’re getting the benefits of that too.” She looked around the apartment. “I live in a lousy hotel suite with that bull dyke Christine, who acts like my keeper. I’m alone, and all I’m asking is for Lyon to go to Los Angeles with me for ten lousy days. I can’t face Hollywood alone. It’ll be my first time back. Maybe you think it’s easy to step out there and know they’re all staring and whispering, ’Look how fat she is.’ And then having to grin and win them over. Sure my talent gets ’em—but I have that first awful minute to face, when they’re gasping. I need someone to give me a pep talk before each show. I need it, Anne. If I didn’t have a friendly face I’d take a Dexie—or a drink. A real drink, not beer. And that would be it. They told me at the funny farm that the minute I start with pills or booze, good-by Charlie!”

“If Lyon wants to go it’s all right,” Anne said.

“You put it that way and you know damn well he won’t,” Neely snapped.

“No, Neely, I mean it. It will be all right with me.”

“It has to be more than all right or he won’t go. You’ve got to make him go. Otherwise, I just won’t play the date. I can always get laryngitis.”

Lyon refused to leave Anne. And he deeply resented Neely’s blackmail tactics. “No fat little pig is going to run our lives,” he said angrily. “She may be important to the office, but not quite that important.”

“But you’re on the verge of getting several big stars,” Anne argued. George told me things are really popping. But they’d fall through if Neely left the office—and she could. She could break her contract by saying you refused her personal representation when she most needed it.”

“Then she’s free to leave. If George and I have to pin our entire future on this bag of blubber then we really haven’t much faith in ourselves. I don’t know about George, but I’m getting damn tired of hearing how we need Neely to get the others. Maybe he doesn’t believe he has anything to offer a client, but Henry Bellamy believed in me enough to offer me the loan. Henry Bellamy would never have let a Neely O’Hara dictate his life.”

“Helen Lawson did her share,” Anne reminded him.

“He was in love with Helen. That made the difference. We resurrected Neely. That should be enough for the trade. And Henry’s belief in me is enough for me to chance letting Neely go. I’ll not be dependent on anyone.”

The following day Lyon came home earlier than usual. His eyes were cold with anger. He took off his coat and stared at Anne peculiarly. She pulled her bulky frame out of the club chair and started to mix a drink. She sensed some crisis ... something must have gone wrong at the office. He took the drink silently.

“Was George difficult?” she asked.

He sat down and took a long swallow. Then he looked at her intently. “Tell me, Anne, do you think I should go to California with Neely?”

She hesitated. It suddenly seemed to be a loaded question. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her. “I don’t expect the baby until the middle of January. Of course, I don’t want to be without you on Christmas, but I’m trying to be objective ...”

“Tell me what to do, Anne,” he said in that same strange tone.

“It’s for you to decide,” she answered. “I’ll understand, whatever the decision is.”

“No, you decide. You’ve decided everything else. Tell me, what will our baby weigh? I know it will be a girl, because you decided that. Is there anything you don’t control?”

“Lyon, what are you talking about?”

“You! And the Bellamy, Bellows and Burke Agency. God, I must be the laughingstock of this town. I was bought by Anne Welles. I suppose everyone knows but me. I just found out—Neely told me.”

“Neely? How could she know?” Anne was frightened. She had never seen this look on Lyon’s face.

“I know, it was supposed to be a secret. Henry explained. But it would have come out soon anyway. All those weekly checks I’ve been sending Henry have been endorsed by Henry and sent to you. They’d show up in the tax returns.”

“But how did Neely find out?”

“Henry told her. It seems she went to him and told him how things were, hoping he’d convince you to let me travel with her. And that’s when Henry gave it away. He said he was sure you’d want me to do whatever was best for the business, since it was your money at stake. Neely couldn’t wait to rush to the office to tell me. Of course, George put on the proper act, pretended he was surprised. But everyone has known all along, haven’t they?”

“Lyon, no one has known. Henry shouldn’t have told Neely. I was going to tell you when the time came. I only did it because I loved you, to keep you from going back to England.”

“And you accomplished it. You can buy what you want! Is that what you learned from Kevin Gillmore? Everything has a price—just find out the amount.”

“But my money is your money.” She fought her panic. “I only did it because I loved you. I wanted to marry you and have your baby—can’t you understand?”

“No. I only understand that George stood there with a smirk and said, ’Cheer up, Lyon, we’re in the same boat—our wives own the business.’ But I’m not George Bellows. And by God from now on the business will always come first. Your money is at stake, and I’ll get it back for you—every cent. But something more important than money is at stake now—my pride and self-respect. There’s only one way to get it back—by doubling your goddam investment.”

“Lyon!” She threw her arms around him, but he remained stiff and unyielding. “I did it out of love. Do you understand?”

“I understand only one thing—the Bellamy, Bellows and Burke Agency is going to be the biggest agency in town ... in the world! You bought it for me, my girl, and you’re going to get your money’s worth. I’ll show you. And the first thing I do is book reservations to take our pig of a star to Los Angeles. Christmas be damned—full speed ahead!”

1963

Jennifer Burke was born New Year’s Day. She burst into the world two weeks ahead of schedule and gave Anne and the doctor quite a frantic New Year’s Eve. She took fifteen hours to make her entrance, but when she finally arrived, red and squalling, Anne saw no wrinkles or wizened newborn face—she saw only the miracle and beauty of the little life she had borne, and her strength surged back at the wonder of it all.

She had been lonely with Lyon gone. Although he called every day from California, the rift was there. She felt it in his casual terms of endearment. It stood between them like a steel gate. But when the baby came, the gate opened. As she came out of the anesthetic haze he phoned, and she said, almost apologetically, “It is a girl ...”

He laughed, heartily. “I’m delighted! I’m much too old to learn to play football with a son. I’ll have more fun teaching a teen-aged daughter how to dance.”

He called her two and three times a day while she was in the hospital. Neely’s triumph in Los Angeles had been record-breaking, and now she was ready to go on to San Francisco. Would Anne mind dreadfully? It meant three more weeks away.

“Of course not,” she said quickly. She did not want to chance reviving any discussion of the firm or Neely’s work. Not now, when everything was wonderful again. “Jennifer Burke will be an old lady by then, but I’ll try to keep your memory alive,” she teased.

“George said he’d take some Polaroid pictures of her,” Lyon said. “Send them to me as soon as they dry.”

“I’ve just sent the one they took at the hospital. She looks like a little old gnome. But really, she’s going to be a beauty, Lyon. She has dark hair—what there is of it.”

Lyon flew into town at the end of the month. Little Jennifer weighed nine pounds and had lost her wrinkles. She was all pink and white, and he was delighted with her. He smiled gently as he studied the tiny face. “I’m terribly afraid she resembles me,” he said with a frown. “Anne, you should have concentrated harder. I wanted a carbon copy of you.”

“I did concentrate, and it worked. I wanted her to look exactly like you.”

He had rushed straight from the airport to the apartment to see her and the baby. Now he had to go to the office. “We’ll celebrate the heiress’s arrival tonight at dinner,” he promised.

That night Miss Cuzins, the baby’s nurse, helped her squeeze into a waist nipper. It was uncomfortable, but after so many months of being ungainly, she wanted Lyon to see her slim and chic again. Not too bad, she thought, studying her figure in the mirror. Actually her weight had returned to normal; it was just her waistline that was off, and the nipper did the trick. After all, it was only a month. But thank God she would finally be able to go to bed with Lyon that night. It had been so long—not since her seventh month. Poor Lyon. The doctor had warned her there might be some pain at first, but it didn’t matter. To hold Lyon in her arms again, to feel his body against her own—that was all that mattered.

His secretary called at six. Lyon was at a screening; would she meet him at seven o’clock at Danny’s Hideaway? She hung up, slightly disappointed. She had envisioned cocktails together at home, then a quiet dinner somewhere off the beaten track, where they wouldn’t run into everyone they knew. She liked Danny’s, but it meant everyone stopping by the table to talk about business. Normally she didn’t mind shop talk, but tonight was to be special.

She sat at a table near the bar and waited. It was a quarter to eight and she was on her second Scotch when she finally saw Lyon. He was with two of his assistants and Bill Mack, a television director.

He rushed to her and kissed her lightly. “Forgive me, please. We were looking at a tape at N.B.C., and the bloody thing split and had to be rerun. Oh, darling, you remember Jim Handly and Bud Hoff,” he said as he brought the two young men over to the table. “And of course you know Bill.”

They sat at a large table and talked about the tape they had seen, a format of a new situation comedy show. From the conversation, Anne deduced that Bill Mack owned it and that he wanted to sign with The Three B’s, as Bellamy, Bellows and Burke was beginning to be known. He wanted them to sell the package. Lyon was enthusiastic. He was sure he could interest C.B.S. or A.B.C., and perhaps redo it with Joey Kling in the lead. Joey had just signed with the office. He was the new comedian of the year.

“He’s going to be at the Palladium with Neely,” Lyon explained. “As a matter of fact, he should be here any second. I told him to pick me up.”

“Pick you up?” Anne turned in surprise.

“Oh, my angel,” he said with genuine concern. “This all happened three hours ago. Joey is going to Washington to break in his act.”

“But you don’t have to go, do you?”

“Don’t I ever! Neely thinks she’s doing a one-woman show there tomorrow night. I have to explain how important it is for Joey to share the bill with her.”

“I don’t envy you,” Bud Hoff said.

Lyon smiled. “Neely knows there will be other acts on the bill with her at the Palladium, but she hasn’t shared the bill with anyone in the States. So far it’s been a one-woman show. But when I explain that we’ve just signed Joey ... Neely’s really a good sort, if you explain things right.”

He was leaving tonight! The realization kept spinning through her head. He was leaving tonight!

“When will you be back?” she asked.

“In two weeks. I’ll phone first thing in the morning. Perhaps you could fly down over the weekend. Could little Jen spare you?”

“Must you go tonight, Lyon?”

“I must. I hadn’t planned to leave until tomorrow. But I have to get the publicity set on Joey, and I’d best be on hand early tomorrow morning.”

He had only planned to stay in town one night!

Joey Kling suddenly poked his head in the door. Lyon waved. “I’ve got the car waiting,” Joey called out. “And we’re double-parked.”

Lyon sprang up. “Sign the tab to the office, Bud. Good night, my angel—I’ll phone you tomorrow. Oh Bud, you will see Anne home, won’t you?”

She didn’t go to Washington over the weekend. Miss Cuzins had said it would be fine, of course she could go. But Lyon never brought it up. And on Friday he merely said, “I’ll ring you tomorrow, same time.”

******

“Why don’t you just come out and ask what’s wrong?” Henry said.

Anne stared into her coffee cup as if expecting some miraculous answer to be revealed in its dregs. “Because basically nothing is wrong,” she answered. “There’s just this intangible difference.”

Henry Bellamy sighed. Anne looked pale and much too thin. She had sounded desperate when she demanded he take her to dinner. He was also afraid of the questions she would put to him.

“Henry, the baby is three months old. Lyon has spent exactly four days with her. One between California and Washington, and three between Washington and London. He’s been in London a month now. Neely’s a smash. I know she’s being held over, but there’s no reason for him to remain.”

“What does George say?”

She smiled. “The same old line. That Neely won’t stay there alone. That Lyon is like a god to her, the only one she’ll listen to. That she’s bringing big money into the office.”

Henry’s smile was sad. “This is the story of being a successful manager. The wife always suffers.”

“But they’ve gotten several big stars now. The office is doing great. How long do they have to play wet nurse to Neely? She seems all right now. I think she can stand on her own two feet.”

“They’re new in the business, Anne. Everyone’s watching them. George never was a live wire. Oh, he’s a hell of a businessman, but Lyon is the personality boy. And there will always be a Neely or some star to wet-nurse. You might as well face up to it.”

“You mean I go through life like this?”

“It gets easier as time goes along,” he said.

“Not for me it won’t!”

He was silent for a moment, then he said, “Anne, you can’t have everything. I’ve seen your apartment. A layout like that costs money. And Lyon is one of those guys who must pay his own way.”

“But Henry—why doesn’t he ask me to join him in London?”

Henry studied his cuticle. “You’ve never been abroad, Anne. Perhaps he feels he’d like to be able to show you around. But he’s trapped in the theatre all the time. It wouldn’t be much fun for you hanging around like that.”

“If he explained it that way I’d understand. And I’d go along with it. I could sightsee ... catch other shows. As long as I saw him a little.”

“Let it be. He should return any day now.”

“He’ll be back in a week. But then what? Who knows where Neely will be booked by then? And off he’ll go.”

“Take each problem as it comes,” Henry suggested.

******

Lyon returned ten days later. But he could only stay a week. Neely was going to make a picture in Europe. It would be shot in France and Italy with a top cast, “She’s not making a fortune out of it,” he explained, “but it will prove to Hollywood and television that she’s reliable, because I intend to see that the picture is brought in ahead of schedule.”

“Lyon, take me with you,” she said suddenly.

“Wouldn’t work.”

“Why not?”

“Neely can be a monster, you know. Her success in London was staggering. You don’t know what it’s like when you make it over there. They have a loyalty that’s unbelievable. They shout her name when she walks down the street and they queue up for hours just to catch a glimpse of her. Two guys from the Johnson Harris office flew over with a big television offer. Everyone is trying to grab her. And all this is getting to her.”

“But she has to have loyalty to you and George—you rescued her.”

“She’s also paid off every cent she owes, to you and to the office. She’s making money—and she’s making us money. The shoe seems to be on the other foot. She thinks we ought to be grateful to her.”

“But what’s that got to do with my coming over?”

“It would be a distraction. Neely would resent it.”

“Neely would resent it! I’m your wife. And I’m her best friend. How could she resent me?”

“She’s a power again, and she knows it. Don’t forget, she allowed Joey Kling to share the bill, and we’ve gotten Joey a big TV deal for next season out of it. The package will go for a hundred and fifty thousand a week, and we represent that package. That’s fifteen thousand a week for thirty-nine weeks. And Neely was directly responsible for it. Next year we’ll get Neely a special—once a month, for two hundred thousand each. So right now everything revolves around Neely. If you are there, naturally I’ll be splitting my time. I’d want to show you Paris, Rome—I’d want to be with you. I would neglect Neely. Please, my darling, bear with me. In another year I shall be able to pay back your loan in the business. But for the moment, Neely is still the backbone of The Three B’s and must be handled with care.”

“But I’m sure Neely wouldn’t resent me. She was the one who told me I could leave the baby and travel.”

“Neely is ... well, she’s different now. All she thinks about is Neely. You’ve got to understand that, Anne. You were never close to her when she was doing well. She always came running to you when things went wrong. She was human then—now she’s impossible. I have to watch her every second to keep her from alienating people, to make sure she reports on time. She’s regained her feeling of power. She’s even started with the tantrums again. Luckily I can control them, and let’s hope it keeps that way. But I must devote all my time to her.”

The next three months were impossible for Anne. She spent so much time with little Jennifer that the nurse felt idle and complained. Reports kept coming in about Neely’s fantastic success abroad. Lyon wrote sporadically and phoned once a week. The picture was going great, although they had had to reshoot the beginning because Neely had lost so much weight. He’d be home the end of June. Then a week passed without any word at all.

She placed a transatlantic call on July fourth. The operator at the George V announced he had checked out exactly a week ago. No, no forwarding address. She believed he had returned to the States. Yes, Miss O’Hara had checked out at the same time.

She was dumbstruck. Could he have come back by boat? But why, if he was eager to see her and the baby? She called George. He sounded evasive. Yes, Lyon and Neely were due back; no, he had not heard from them in five days.

That night she lay in bed and tried to watch television. Nothing held her interest. She finally turned off the set and settled down with the morning papers. Suddenly an item in one of the columns stood out like a neon sign:

What legendary singing star who has made a phenomenal comeback attributes it, along with her shapely new figure, to her new love? But the star’s love story may not have a happy ending. Her love is her manager, who is very much married to a television beauty.

Her stomach lurched. It couldn’t be! But Lyon had said that Neely had dropped a lot of weight. She felt that she was going to be sick—or faint. Wait, she told herself. All right, maybe Neely has fallen for Lyon. That’s not hard. But it doesn’t necessarily mean Lyon cares about Neely. Lyon might be holding her at arm’s length. Perhaps he realized all along that this would happen. That would account for his reluctance to have her join him in Europe. He might be trying to protect her. It might be that Lyon was having a dreadful time ... but where was he now?

She reached for the phone and on an impulse placed a person-to-person call to the Beverly Hills Hotel in California. She prayed she was wrong. She got the operator at the other end. Yes, Mr. Lyon Burke was registered—he had checked in three days ago. No, he was not in. Yes, Miss O’Hara was also registered. Her room did not answer. It was only nine o’clock in California—did the party wish to try later? Anne canceled the call and fell back against the pillows. He had been in California three days! He hadn’t phoned! She threw on some slacks and rushed out into the night.

Henry took ages to answer the door. “Jesus, what’s up?” he said sleepily. He tied the sash of his robe and led her into the living room. Switching on the lights, he motioned toward a chair. “Sit down. What’s the matter?”

Anne was hysterical. “You saw it!” She pointed to the morning papers on the floor. “Henry, don’t play dumb with me. I just found out Lyon has been back for several days. He’s in California with Neely. He hasn’t even called me.”

“Let’s have a drink,” Henry suggested.

“Henry ... help me!” She sank into a chair and began to sob.

He calmly mixed a Scotch and brought it to her. “Now let’s cut the hysteria and face facts. You want to save your marriage, don’t you?”

“Then you believe it too!”

“Of course. I’ve known it for some time.”

She couldn’t speak. She stared at him as if the last friend in the world had betrayed her.

“Now grow up,” he said. “This was in the cards. You have several alternatives. One, you can walk out with your pride intact. Or two, if you want him badly enough and have enough guts, you can ride it out and get him back.”

“I can’t live without Lyon,” she sobbed.

“Then start getting some control. Make scenes with him and you throw him right into Neely’s arms.”

“But she’s fat as a pig. He can’t care for her.”

“Not any more.” His voice was weary. “I just got back from the Coast last night. I ran into Neely and Lyon at Chasens. She looks marvelous. She barely weighs a hundred pounds.”

“Neely?”

“Love can do it, I guess. She dropped about ten pounds in Los Angeles on her first trip, maybe ten more in Frisco and Washington, and the three months in Europe did the trick. She doesn’t eat a thing. I watched her. She looks like she’ll go up in smoke any second. But she’s insane about Lyon. She doesn’t take her eyes off him—clings to him every second ...”

Anne buried her face in her hands. “Henry, stop it! What are you trying to do—kill me?”

“No, I’m trying to give you the truth. Once you know the facts, maybe you’ll know how to fight. Surprise could defeat you. So you might as well have it straight. Now—grit your teeth. This is really the bonecrusher—Lyon is not exactly fighting her off.”

“No ... no ...” It was a wail.

“Now stop the hysterics and let’s figure out a plan.”

She looked at him in total disbelief. “Henry, you must be mad! It’s finished—over.”

He shrugged. “Fine. I’ll handle the divorce for you. Lyon will have to pay plenty of alimony, and child support. I’m sure he’ll agree to everything.”

She began to sob more violently. “No ... no ... I won’t give him up.”

“Then pull yourself together. Drink your drink and let’s figure this out. You’re not the first girl whose husband balled around, and you won’t be the last. You just have to figure out what means the most to you, Lyon or your pride.”

“But it could never be the same.”

“No, it won’t. Some of the stardust will be gone. But you’ll have him. And if I know you as well as I think I do, a little of Lyon is better than no Lyon at all.”

“Henry, how could he respect me if he knew I accepted this?”

“That’s just it,” he said impatiently. “He must never know you know. If he did you’d have to ask for your freedom. That’s just what Neely’s gunning for. Look ... Lyon entered into this innocently. You must realize that. But it’s pretty heady stuff, being a Svengali, and the timing was right. Lyon needed something like this for his ego. He’s a creative guy, Anne. He feels you sold him down the drain creatively and tricked him into this new career. Which is bullshit—if he really had it, no one could stop it. But now he’s creating again. From a large mass of blubber he’s etched a slim, vibrant star, a star who seems to depend on him for the very air she breathes. He’s not just a manager now, he’s a creator. He feels larger than life. It’s a great feeling of power. No man can resist it. And Neely plays into his hands by acting helpless. She’s as helpless as a cobra, but that’s not the way it appears to him. To Lyon you’re the strong one, the tycoon—his Svengali. Actually, Anne, you’re not half as strong as Neely—the Neelys of this world are indestructible—but with your poise and self-confidence you make Lyon feel less a man than Neely does. He probably feels that you castrated him—and not once, but twice. The first time when you refused to give up a city for him, and now by buying him an agency.”

“If you only hadn’t told Neely,” she moaned.

“It was the end of December. You and Lyon were happy, and Neely was your best friend—or so I thought. She came to me because she knew you listened to me. She wanted me to convince you to travel after the baby was born. She sobbed, swore she wouldn’t go without Lyon, carried on ... she said you wouldn’t listen to reason because you were a millionaire and didn’t give a damn about the agency, that you probably wanted Lyon to retire. So I explained she had the picture all wrong, that it was your money at stake. After all, I was going to have to tell Lyon in a short time anyway. How did I know Neely of all people would use it against you? Christ, do you know how many times she’s told me she owed her whole life to you? You got her put back in Hit the Sky by having Lyon intercede. You talked to Gil Case about her replacing Terry King. You paid the freight for her at Haven Manor. I never thought of Neely as a girl who would turn against you, let alone as a rival for Lyon. It was a big mistake on my part, but done with the best of intentions. And now the thing for you to do is face facts. With you Lyon didn’t feel like a big man—then Neely came along and built him to new heights. You’ll just have to wait till it levels out.”

“How?” she begged.

“By sitting tight. Stop playing God and be a woman for a while. Let the cobra in Neely come out. Lyon’s no fool.” He paused. “You know, this thing with you and Lyon—it was wrong from the start. But you wanted him. All right, you’ve got him. And you’ve gone through too much to throw in the sponge now. Your cue is to act as if nothing has happened. It’s not going to be easy—in fact, it may be almost impossible at times, because this thing with Neely will get hotter before it cools down. But if you can hold out the cycle will reverse itself. And he’s got to wind up hating her. She’ll castrate him—she does that to all men. You ought to hear Ted Casablanca sound off on her. She’s all syrup and softness in the beginning, but like all stars, she’s solid steel underneath. In time, if you can ride with the punches, you’ll wind up as the soft female he has wronged, and he’ll feel protective and guilty about you. The marriage will be bruised a bit, and you may not even want him by then—but if you do you’ll have him. It’s going to be a battle of nerves, but I think you can do it.”

“I’ll try,” she said wearily. “Henry ... my world’s just collapsed. I think tonight I may take my first doll.”

“A what?”

“A Seconal.” She smiled faintly. “Jennifer and Neely called them dolls. I’ve never taken one in my life, but I think I’ve earned one tonight. I wonder where I could get some.”

He went to his medicine cabinet and returned with a bottle. “Here ... there’s a two-month’s supply. I just took one out for myself.”

She smiled faintly. “You too?”

“For twenty years. It’s standard equipment for this business. Take one and get into bed. Don’t smoke. If you’ve never taken one before it will act quickly.”

She took the bottle and left. Her legs felt leaden, and during the cab ride unwelcome pictures of Neely and Lyon flashed through her mind.

At home she stood in the bathroom and stared at the bottle for some time. It was packed with gleaming red capsules. She took them out and counted them. Sixty-five. Henry certainly trusted her. Well, why not? She wasn’t about to throw in the towel. She had a child who needed her and a husband she had to get back. All she wanted was a few hours of escape, a few hours to blot out this nightmare that had suddenly erupted. She swallowed one of the capsules. “All right, little doll. Let’s see what all the shouting is about.” She got into bed and picked up the papers she had tossed on the floor. She began to read. In ten minutes the print began to blur. It was fantastic ... her head grew light ... her eyes closed ... it was a doll ... she was going to sleep. Tomorrow she’d think it all out.

******

Lyon arrived a week later. He said they had taken the polar route home and stopped off in California. She pretended surprise. He looked at her peculiarly. “You mean you didn’t know I was in Los Angeles?”

“How would I know?” she asked. “I assumed you were detained in Europe.”

He turned away, but not quickly enough for her to miss the surprise in his eyes. He had returned expecting trouble, loaded with explanations—and none were required. They had dinner at The Colony, then spent their first evening alone. She was tender and devoted in their lovemaking. It was difficult; she wanted to reach out and claw him, to leave evidence that he belonged to her. She was tortured with visions of him and Neely in bed, but somehow she pushed the thoughts away and returned his embraces with passion.

They had five wonderful days together. She almost began to believe that nothing was wrong, that whatever had happened was in the past. Then Neely arrived. She was signed for ten monthly television specials, and she would have to begin taping in August, since the first show went on in September. But there was still half of July with nothing to do, so she came to New York looking for action.

It was a Thursday. Anne knew nothing about Neely’s arrival. She and Lyon had theatre tickets and a date afterward at the Copa with the agent of a new male singer. It seemed that every agent in town was trying to get his client a guest shot on Neely’s show.

At five o’clock Lyon’s secretary called. Mr. Burke had been called to a meeting with the sponsors, and he would not be able to make it to the theatre. He was sending Bud Hoff to escort her. He would join them later at the Copa.

It never occurred to Anne that anything was amiss. She played with the baby, had a leisurely bath and dressed. Bud arrived and took her to the theatre. They went to the Copa, where the agent was waiting, holding a choice table on the balcony. Anne explained that Lyon was detained and would join them.

The agent nodded. “I was afraid he’d get tied up with Neely arriving today.”

She felt her face grow warm, but she managed an impassive smile. “Oh yes ... that’s right. What time did Neely get in, Bud?” she asked, trying to give the impression that the news was no surprise.

Bud seemed uncomfortable. “About noon, I think. Anyway, that’s when the first call came in.”

Anne ordered a drink. “Poor Lyon. He was hoping she’d stay in Arizona with her sons.” Was there an exchange of glances between Bud and the agent or did she imagine it? How many people actually knew the truth?

She forced herself to watch the show and comment favorably on the singer. Lyon’s empty chair seemed to smirk at her. The smile was glued to her face as she made wifely excuses for his absence. She could see how disappointed the agent was, but his misery was no match for her own. “Probably something came up about Neely’s show—she relies on Lyon so much. I’m sure he feels dreadful about missing the show, but Bud will give him a full report, won’t you, Bud?”

Of course Bud would. Again there seemed to be an exchange between the two men.

It was three in the morning when Bud dropped her off at the apartment. She knew Lyon would not be there. She tiptoed in and kissed the baby and covered her. Darling, darling little Jennifer, with her father’s black hair and blue eyes. She was so beautiful. She felt the tears begin with the closing of her throat. No—she had to be calm when Lyon came in. No tears. She had to swallow whatever story he gave her.

At five o’clock she tiptoed into the living room. Perhaps he had come in and didn’t want to disturb her. Maybe he was sleeping in the den. But the living room and den were empty. Oh God, Lyon, why? And Neely—how could you do this to me? She walked to the bathroom and took a red pill—she had taken one every night for a week until Lyon had returned. She had the feeling that it had been the only thing that had saved her sanity. She hadn’t taken one since his return. But here we go again, she thought. Thank God for the lovely red dolls. They made the nights bearable. It was easier to get through the days; there was the baby, and she could usually have lunch with Henry or casual acquaintances.

She knew many women who lunched at “21” or The Little Club and who were equally frantic to fill their days, wives of Lyon’s assistants, or of directors or clients. But she had never formed a close friendship with any girl since Neely and Jennifer. Close friendships with girls come early in life. After thirty it becomes harder to make new friends—there are fewer hopes, dreams or anticipations to share. Still, there was always someone to fill an afternoon, to lunch or shop with. But the nights! Long after little Jen and Miss Cuzins were asleep she’d find herself awake, thinking of Lyon, seeing his face, his smile—and imagining him with Neely. When it was more than she could bear, she would dash for release in the form of the faithful little red doll. Soon Neely and Lyon would be blotted into nothingness by a dreamless sleep. That’s how it had been that week.

And now it was all starting again. She lay in bed and wondered how long Neely was planning to stay. Perhaps it would just be for a few days. The room began to slip away. Thank God the pill was working.

She did not know how long she slept, but she was vaguely conscious of Lyon’s presence, his quiet movement in the room. She forced her eyes open ... it was daylight. He was in the bathroom.

“Lyon?” She sat up. She saw the clock—eight o’clock! Had he just returned? She saw his suit lying on the chair.

He came out of the bathroom in his shorts, smiling. “Sorry I woke you.”

“What time is it?”

“Eight. I’m getting dressed.” He walked across the room and quickly sat on his untouched bed to hide the freshness of the sheets. He was actually trying to pretend he had been here!

“What time did you get to sleep?” he asked casually as he put on his shoes. “About three,” she lied. Damn the pill—she was so groggy.

“I came in about four,” he said lightly. “You were dead asleep.”

She fell back against the pillow.

“Neely got into town,” he said as he put on a clean shirt.

“Yes, Bud told me.” She knew he was watching her reactions. She kept her eyes shut.

“She joined me and the sponsors. There are some changes she wants made in the format, and a few problems that had to be ironed out. She wants more strings in the band and wants them to pay for it, and she insists that the network absorb half the below-the-line costs. It took hours to work out.”

Till eight in the morning? She kept her eyes closed.

“Then I went on to a late dinner with the sponsors. I had to soothe them—and that Ted Kelly ... you know how he likes to drink. Oh, that’s right, you haven’t met him. He’s with the agency. I sat with him at P. J.’s till three-thirty, calming him. I wanted to call you at the Copa, but he would have insisted on joining us and he was terribly drunk then, so I just sat nursing him along. Thank God P. J.’s closes at four. I came directly home.”

Oh, God, I can’t stand this, she thought. I’ve got to scream. But she bit her lips and remained silent.

“Are you awake, dearest?” When she nodded faintly, he smiled. “You must have had a bit yourself to be this done in. By the way, tonight try to arrange something with some of your girl friends. I have to take Neely and some agency people down to the Village and catch some acts.”

She was wide awake now. “Can’t I go along?”

“You’d hate it,” he said quickly. “And it’s business. None of the chaps are bringing their wives. If you came it would put a social connotation on it, and then they’d all bring their wives and we’d have a big party. One can’t rush from spot to spot with an entourage.”

“But Neely will be there,” she argued.

He looked surprised. “But of course. It’s her show. She must approve any act that goes on.” Then he smiled and said, “I hear Jennifer. I swear it sounds like she said ’Dada.’ I think I’ll join our beauty for breakfast. Now you go back to sleep.”

She didn’t see him for five nights, though she heard him come in early in the morning to change. Sometimes she’d wake and pretend to go along with the idea that he had just awakened. He took care to muss the bed when he came in, and there was always a valid excuse—more acts to see, a meeting with the agency, a recording session with Neely, listening to songs for Neely’s new album. And each night she’d take the red pill and sink into merciful oblivion.

On the sixth day she faced a new crisis. He had just gone. He had been out with Ted Kelly again, he said. Just the two of them. She had pretended to swallow it, and now sank back against the pillows. But she couldn’t go back to sleep. She walked into the bathroom and took another red doll.

It was one in the afternoon when she woke. She rang for the maid and said she wasn’t feeling well, that she’d take some coffee and toast in bed. The maid brought the tray and the afternoon papers. Idly, she opened one, turned to the rotogravure section—and was struck by a large picture of Neely and Lyon. “Miss Neely O’Hara dancing at El Morocco with her personal manager, Lyon Burke.”

Neely looked good. With a start she realized she hadn’t seen Neely in ... how long? Before the baby—maybe eight or nine months ago. Neely wasn’t even trying to hide her affair with Lyon. No, not the way she looked—radiant, smiling into Lyon’s eyes. And Lyon looked happy too. Oh, God, now what? He was caught in a lie. If only he hadn’t told her he had been with Ted Kelly. She dialed Henry.

“Throw the paper out,” he told her. “Don’t confront him with it. It’s possible you wouldn’t have seen it.”

“Henry, I can’t go on like this,” she sobbed. “I can’t ...”

“Come on over, Anne,” he begged. “We’ll talk about it.”

******

Henry paced back and forth. “I admit it’s rough,” he said. “I didn’t think she’d be this brazen. I thought it would only be on tour. I figured you might be lonely, but I didn’t figure you’d have it shoved under your nose like this.”

“What can I do? I must be the laughingstock of the whole town. I can’t even go to lunch now. I said as late as yesterday that Lyon wished Neely would return to California, that he hates playing wet nurse. I said this in front of three women at lunch—and I knew they were snickering. Now I can’t even save face.” She picked up the paper.

“Shall I call Lyon?” he asked. “Talk as a friend, without letting on you’re here ... see what I can do?”

She shook her head. “Lyon would know. He knows you’re the only one I trust.”

Suddenly he reached for the phone. “What are you doing?” she demanded.

“I’m going to call Neely,” he said. “I’ll pretend I’m offering her advice, which she needs. You go into the bedroom and listen in on the extension.”

She watched him as he wasted a few minutes complimenting Neely on her new figure, her various successes. Finally he forged ahead. “Neely, I just saw the afternoon paper. What in hell is this about Lyon Burke?”

Anne didn’t like the expression on his face. She went into the bedroom and quietly slipped the receiver of the extension phone off the hook.

Neely was speaking. “Listen, Henry—I love you, but butt out.”

“Neely,” Henry said quietly, “I don’t care how you feel—even if you feel you owe no loyalty to Anne, there is still your public image to protect. Everyone knows Lyon is married to Anne. So far there’ve been just a few veiled hints in columns, but this ...after all, your sponsors certainly wouldn’t want a scandal, and Lyon is living with Anne.”

“Like hell he is,” Neely snarled. “He just goes home in the morning to change his clothes. He’s waiting, hoping she’ll catch him. But she’s always asleep.”

“Maybe you only think he wants to be caught, Neely.”

“Nuts! He’s been with me every night. When they snapped us at Morocco last night, he even said, ’Maybe it’s for the best—if the picture breaks it will all come out.’ That’s exactly what he said. He’s just afraid to break it to Anne, afraid she might fall apart. And ...” Neely hesitated. “Well ... he does love that kid of theirs.”

“Neely, this will all come back to you,” Henry said. “You can’t just reach out and take what you want without worrying about the feelings of others. Everyone gets paid back.”

“I’m not everyone!” she cried shrilly. “And it’s about time I take what I want. You know why? Because all my life I’ve given. Even as a kid ... those fucking Gaucheros couldn’t dance, it was me who held the act together. My brother-in-law is a checker at Macy’s now—he never got an act together after I left. I made the studio money and they kicked me in the ass. But nothing could destroy me. You know damn well there’s no one like me. I don’t have to live by the stinking rules made for ordinary people, because I’m not ordinary. Nothing can destroy me, I tell you. Demerol, pills, a funny farm, weight—nothing. But Lyon makes me tick. I don’t need to eat when I’m with Lyon. I can drink now and take skinny pills and even sleeping pills and it’s all right. Dammit, Henry, my talent makes the world happy. And Lyon makes me happy. Don’t I have a right to be happy? I need Lyon. Who the hell is Anne?”

“Only the best friend you ever had!”

“Oh sure. Listen, she was lucky I gave her the time of day. Why shouldn’t she have liked having me around? I’m colorful. I’m a star. Who in hell is she when you get down to it? Even when I was a kid I had more on the ball. Sure, she had some fancy manners, but that was all. And who is she now? A skinny nobody who sold nail polish on the air and who slept with some old bastard for years. So she used his money to buy Lyon, and now she wants to play Miss Pure Mouth. The Virgin Mary with the baby. Well, I didn’t get my money handed to me because I had good cheekbones, I earned it with my talent. She’s gone through life on a pass long enough because of her goddam classy looks. She’s around thirty-eight now, and I’m thirty-four, but my looks don’t matter. I never got by on looks. If you’re a friend of Anne’s, tell her to give Lyon his freedom. Then she can have her face done and maybe Kevin Gillmore or some other slob will take her on. She was always good at attracting millionaires!” Then, with a snort, Neely slammed the phone down.

Anne slowly replaced the phone in its cradle. She walked over to the mirror. The fine lines under her eyes were deep today, and there were small lines evident around her mouth. Funny, she’d never really thought about her looks in connection with Lyon, but—

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

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

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

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

“Be thankful for small favors,” she sobbed.

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

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

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

******

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

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

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

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

“Nope.”

“I have to find him. It’s urgent.”

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

“Neely, the baby is sick.”

“Call a doctor.”

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

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

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

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

She believed Neely. Even Neely couldn’t be that heartless. God, where was Lyon? Neely picked up the phone and left a do-not-disturb order. Where in hell was Lyon?

******

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

******

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because I thought she might know where you were. You’ve been gone for a week—attending to her business, I presume.” He looked at her carefully. “There’s a lot of work that goes into the preparation of a television show. We decided she should have a new theme song, a new identity.”

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

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

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

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

******

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

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

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

“He’s asleep, Neely.”

“Wake him.”

“I won’t.”

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

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

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

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

“The baby came home from the hospital tonight.”

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

“It was her first night home.”

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

“Well ... come over now.”

“Neely, it’s four in the morning.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He turned and quickly left the room.

******

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Love me?”

“You know I do,” he said quickly.

“How much?”

“Terribly.”

“More than you love Anne and the baby?”

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

“I hope she has.”

“Do you enjoy hurting people?”

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

“Perhaps she does know,” Lyon said.

“You’ve told her?”

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

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

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

“Don’t do that,” Lyon said.

“I’m gonna—”

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

“When? You didn’t tell me.”

“Just last night.”

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

“What happened?” Neely asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll do that.”

“Love me?”

“I adore you.”

Then everyone hung up.

1964

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lyon met with the network and sponsors. Everything went well. The director called from the Coast. Neely was furious, but was cooperative so far. Lyon relaxed and decided against rushing back. He took Anne to the theatre ... he took little Jennifer for her first pony ride in Central Park. They were in bed watching the Late Show when the news bulletin interrupted: “Neely O’Hara rushed to hospital, close to death.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lyon rose and walked out of the room.

“Lyon! Come back here!” she shouted. He continued to walk down the hall.

******

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

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

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

“Except my share.” George smiled again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

******

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And then what?”

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

1965

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

Celebrities from the Broadway shows began to arrive. It was past one, and she hadn’t seen Lyon since their brief kiss at midnight. It was January first now, Jen’s second birthday. She slipped away from everyone and walked down the hall to the nursery. The small night light picked out the dim outline of the sleeping child.

“Happy New Year, angel,” Anne whispered. “I love you ... oh, God, how I love you!” She leaned over and kissed the clean little brow, then quietly slipped out of the room. The living room was a wall of noise. The den was packed, too, and the bar was jammed. She went into her bedroom and closed the door. No, this was wrong—the hostess could not duck out. Besides, if she kept the door closed, someone would knock. It was rude. She opened the door and switched off the lights. That was better. If she left the door open and the lights off, no one could see her. She hoped they wouldn’t come in. Her head was splitting.

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

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

“Nonsense. That would draw attention.”

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

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

“Oh, come now, you’re just a baby.”

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

His kiss silenced her.

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

“I’ll try.”

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

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

“Is that what Neely O’Hara did?”

“There was never anything between Neely and me.”

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

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

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

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

END