“Henry! I gave you more credit. Are you like all the others, taking Jennifer at face value? She’s a wonderful girl, but no man ever takes the trouble to find out. I thought you were different. Jennifer is really a fine person . . . a real friend . . . and sweet. She’s one of the sweetest girls I’ve ever known.”
“Sweet? Okay, I’ll go along with that. Sweet on the surface. That smile is glued on. But tell me something, Anne. How deep do her feelings go?”
“That’s hard to say. Jennifer doesn’t open up too much. You know something? I’ve never really heard her pan anyone. She is sweet, about everyone. I know that’s a funny word to use about Jennifer, but it’s the right word for her. I’ve lived with her—I know. Now Neely is someone you’d think of as sweet, but she isn’t. Neely’s sharp and bright, but she isn’t sweet. Jennifer is. Do you know she never says anything against the Prince? Just that it didn’t work out. No vindictiveness against him, or Tony—or even Miriam. Just says she couldn’t take the boredom of California. No, she’s basically lonely underneath all that glamour, waiting for a man who’ll like her for herself. Because Jennifer really wants just one man, and a normal life and children—”
“So how come she got rid of her baby? That’s when she lost me. She called from the Coast hysterical because they wanted her to get rid of it—at least the sister did. And she wanted to keep it. Then, after I knock my brains out getting her a good alimony, she unloads it. You tell me a dame who wants a kid can’t live on a thousand a week?”
“She never talked about it, or gave any reasons,” Anne said slowly. “But somewhere along the line she must have lost her nerve about raising it alone. I’m sure if she ever found the right man she’d settle down.”
Henry looked at her closely. “And what about you?”
“Oh, things are going fine. We’ve finished all the test shots. I pose for Gillian’s first spring layout next week.”
“I don’t mean that, Anne. I mean your future. You know, being the Gillian Girl is going to change things. Once your face starts getting plastered in magazines and on billboards, a lot of excitement is going to come your way.”
“I’ve been through that,” she reminded him. “Remember me? Just two years ago I was on the front pages, in all the columns—Allen Cooper’s Cinderella girl. But it didn’t change me.”
Henry said quietly, “It did change you. You didn’t marry Lyon Burke, did you?”
She studied her plate. “I wanted to, Henry . . . more than anything in the world. I still want to.”
“Why didn’t you? When you had the chance?”
“He wanted me to live in Lawrenceville.”
“That’s what I mean,” he said slowly. “The girl who walked into my office that first day would have gone to the ends of the earth for the man she loved. That’s why I took you. I figured you’d be pretty hard to please. You wouldn’t fall for just any guy. I hadn’t counted on Lyon’s coming back. The minute he walked in, I said ‘Good-by, Anne—this is it.’ Unfortunately Lyon was never capable of really caring for anyone deeply, man or woman. You and me, we’re alike—when we care for someone we make gods of them.”
“Lyon loved me . . . I know he did,” she said stubbornly.
“But not as much as he loved himself. A man who could cut every tie the way Lyon does is a man who could never care deeply. Lyon is like Jennifer in a way. They fall in love, the Lyons and the Jennifers, but they can walk away unscarred. Because Number One always comes first. Remember it, Anne, you’re young. Keep those eyes wide open. And when you meet another guy who’s for real, grab him and run for the hills. Don’t hang around the glamour belt too long.”
“I don’t think there will be anyone else who really matters,” she said. “Lyon was it.”
“Lyon’s gone,” he said roughly. “Over . . . done!”
“I understand, but it still doesn’t change me. I can’t just fall for the first passable man who comes along. I want to marry one day and have children. But I want a man I love.” She sighed. “And I’ll never love anyone like I did Lyon.”
“Listen,” he said. “Don’t be a schmuck like me. I loved, too. Only one dame my whole life. Helen Lawson! And I knew goddam well—right from the start—that she didn’t love me. She wasn’t capable of loving anyone. I taught her everything. And smart as I was, I never stopped loving her. Maybe I never gave myself a chance to find a real girl. So how do I wind up? Alone.”
“Maybe you and Helen could still—”
“Are you kidding!”
“But you said you loved her.”
“I did. I loved what I pretended she was—what I wanted her to be. But now I see her as she really is, and I’m too old to find someone else. It’s catching up with her, though. She’s beginning to look on the outside like she is inside—Old Ironsides! I’d kill anyone who called her that to my face, but I can say it to you. I’m not really in love with Helen any more, but I can’t break the habit. It sneaks up on you, Anne—the habit. And after all emotion is gone and logic takes over, the habit is still there. For the rest of your life. So don’t you, at twenty-two, start building any habit. Lyon isn’t wasting a moment thinking about you. Believe me. And you stop thinking about him.”
Anne smiled weakly. “I’ll try. I can only try. . . .”
Neely
1950
Neely closed the script wearily. No use going over it again. She knew it cold. She stretched luxuriously in the large bed and sipped some Scotch. Eleven-thirty and she was still wide awake. Maybe she should take another doll. She had already taken two . . . maybe another red one. She had to be on the set at six. She wandered into the bathroom and popped a red pill into her mouth. “Come on, you little doll, do the job.”
She stumbled back into bed. She noticed her appointment book was open. Was she supposed to remember something? She stared. The words blurred, but she recognized Ted’s handwriting. Come home early today. Bud and Jud’s first birthday!
Oh, God! Geez, it had been today. She hadn’t even looked at the book in the morning. She had been so stoned by the pills she had just managed to make it out of bed. She had needed two Dexies to wake up. And now she’d missed the birthday party! Goddam those retakes! She leaped out of bed and tiptoed into the nursery. A wild thrill of pride surged through her as she looked at the two sleeping blond heads. “Bud and Jud,” she whispered into the darkness, “Mommy missed your birthday, but she loves you. Oh, God, how she loves you! Mommy didn’t see the book or she’da been there—honest.”
She tiptoed out and weaved back to her room. Ted was probably mad, off sulking somewhere. Well, Christ, it wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t seen the damn book. So he left it open on her night table. Who in hell can see anything at five in the morning? She lay back against the pillows. They must a had a cake. With a candle. And Miss Sherman and Ted probably sang Happy Birthday to them. A large tear forced its way through the cream on her face. But Geez, they were only babies. They didn’t know it was their birthday. They weren’t hurt. . . .
And now Ted was taking it out on her. Where in hell was he? Probably cruising, the double-gaited sonofabitch. She recalled the first time she had caught him. Christ! With his arms around that English actor and their tongues down each other’s throats. She had taken a whole bottle of pills that night. They’d had to pump her stomach. She grimaced at the memory. She’d never do that again.
But Ted had been doubly sweet after. The first night back he had held her close and explained that he had only done it with the guy because he had felt insecure. Her being up for an Oscar two years in a row—even if she didn’t get it—it had made him feel insecure, less of a man. That was the night she had conceived. And twins yet! Those two beautiful blond boys in the nursery were hers. They came out of her body! She felt all warm and weak inside. Only twenty-two . . . the biggest star on the Century lot . . . a house of her own in Beverly Hills . . . and twin boys!
The pills weren’t working. She wondered whether Jennifer ever took three. She jus
t bet she did. A person would have to take something to make the kind of pictures Jennifer made! Wow! The last one had really caused a sensation. In La Jolla you’d had to stand in line for hours to get in. And there was Jennifer, with her bare tits, spouting French like a native. Maybe they didn’t think anything of it in Paris, but subtitles under a bare ass still didn’t make it art. And Geez, that big story in Look—or was it Life— showing Jen in that fancy Paris apartment. It practically said she was living with that French producer Claude Chardot.
She wondered what Anne thought about it all. Geez, she owed her a letter. She should thank her for Lyon’s new book, despite those lousy reviews. The trades all said he had gone commercial—or tried to and missed. But hell, maybe he needed money and thought this junk would sell. After all, his first book had gotten raves and didn’t make a dime. She wondered if Anne still cared about Lyon. She must feel something if she had to make sure her friends read his books. But then the columns all hinted she was Kevin Gillmore’s girl. Geez, imagine Anne being the Gillian Girl. You couldn’t open a magazine without seeing her picture. Oh, yes . . . Sunday night. She leaned over and scribbled it in her book. She must remember to watch. Anne was going to do the Gillian commercials on the Big Comedy Hour. Anne on television!
Television . . . Geez, the way everyone in California was acting over that stinking little box. As if it could ever hurt the Industry. But they were all panicking. Contract players in most of the studios were being dropped right and left, and they weren’t signing people to long deals any more—just one-picture or two-picture deals. Lucky she was so big. Boy, they had jumped to sign her. Five nice, solid years . . . money coming in fifty-two weeks, for five more years. . . .
She wished Ted would come home. She needed him to go to bat for her tomorrow. The dancing sequences were too tough. She could dance, but this was ridiculous. She’d get Ted to say she couldn’t dance in the costumes, then they’d have to make the dances easier. She had hardly been able to catch her breath today. Those green pills were beautiful and kept you awake and skinny, but they also made your heart pound so you couldn’t practice a two-hour dance routine. Maybe Ted was at his office. Maybe he wasn’t mad, just working late. She reached for the phone. No, if he wasn’t at his office she didn’t want to know. And what the hell—what would it prove? He could be at his office doing it with a guy. Jesus, why did she love him this much? He wasn’t even a real man. But then Mel was kinda weakish, too. Why did she get attracted to men like this? They seemed so strong in the beginning—helping her, telling her what to do—real strong. Then they petered out.
She looked at the clock—midnight. The pills weren’t working. She needed some more Scotch to help them along. Damn—it was downstairs. It was lucky she had learned booze helped the pills work. She wondered if Jennifer had found out about that. The dolls without booze were nothing. Well, she’d just have to go downstairs and get some more.
She ran down the marble stairs barefoot. The servants were asleep. The lights were out in the living room. While she was groping for the light switch, she heard a splash in the swimming pool. She walked to the patio doors. Who in hell was in the pool? The cabana lights were on, and their reflection hit the pool. It was Ted! She laughed with relief. Geez, what a nut—swimming nude at this hour. She fumbled at the buttons of her pajamas. She’d jump in and surprise him. No, that would wake her completely, and she had an early call. She was just about to shout to him when she saw the girl coming out of the cabana, hesitating shyly, clutching the towel she had draped around her.
“Come on, drop the towel. The water’s heated,” Ted called.
The girl looked up at the dark, rambling house. “Suppose she wakes up?”
“Are you kidding? With what she takes an earthquake couldn’t wake her. Come on, Carmen, or I’ll drag you in!”
The girl dropped the towel demurely. Even in the semidarkness Neely could see she had a wonderful body. Neely squinted her eyes. She had seen this girl somewhere. . . . Sure! Carmen Carver. She had won some beauty contest, and the studio was testing her.
Ted swam to meet the girl. Neely heard a squeal. “Oh, Ted! Not in the water. . . . Don’t!”
“Why not? We’ve done it every other way.”
Neely felt her stomach quiver. Oh, God! No—not this! A boy occasionally she had accepted. It was a sickness of Ted’s—that’s what the psychiatrist had told her. It had nothing to do with unfaithfulness to her. But this!
She grabbed the bottle of Scotch and stumbled up the stairs. She poured a stiff drink and took another pill, then climbed into bed. To hell with Ted and his whore! Geez, she’d be hungover enough tomorrow. And she had to be up at five.
Suddenly she sat up. What would happen if she didn’t go in? In her whole life she had never been five minutes late for a rehearsal, a fitting or an interview. And what did it get her? Sure, she was making five thousand a week now—but what did she have to show for it? The house wasn’t paid for yet—the studio had loaned her the money. Dr. Mitchell said the house was important for her sense of security, that it would rid her of her childhood instability. Some advice at twenty-five bucks a shot! She’d see him tomorrow—let him explain this! And now that she thought about it, what in hell did Ted pay for? The servants, the car, his office, the food and the booze. Maybe it had been a mistake to sign a premarital agreement. His business was going great. Vogue was always giving him big layouts. What did she have? After the studio took out a thousand a week toward the loan on her house, then the agent, the income tax, her personal maid, her secretary . . . Jesus! She couldn’t save a dime. Well, in another three years she’d be clear with the house. She gulped down some more Scotch. A feeling of euphoria began to float through her. Once everything was paid for, everything would be all right. . . .
All right! Holy Christ! With Ted down there banging some girl in her swimming pool? She shot out of bed. She was dizzy and her head was heavy, but she had to throw that girl out of her pool. She held onto the banister as she fumbled her way down the stairs. She groped her way to the light switch and triumphantly flooded the pool with light.
Ted and the girl were scrambling out of the pool as she staggered out, holding a bottle of Scotch.
“Having a good time, kiddies?” she shrieked. “Fucking in my pool? Be sure you drain it out. Remember, Ted—your children go wading in it every morning.”
The girl dodged frantically behind Ted. Neely carefully emptied the bottle into the pool.
“Maybe this’ll disinfect it,” she sneered. Then she stared at Ted. “So now it’s a girl tramp instead of a boy. I guess Dr. Mitchell will tell me you need this too!”
Ted stood erect and silent, his arms behind him to shield the shivering girl. This protective gesture added to Neely’s rage. “Who are you protecting! A whore who contaminated my pool? You know, honey, you mean nothing to him. He usually likes boys for his diversion. Maybe that’s it . . . maybe you have no tits—or maybe you’re a Lesbian!”
The girl broke away and fled into the cabana. Ted stood very still. He had a crazy dignity in spite of his nakedness. For a split second she wanted to rush to him, to say that she was sorry, that she loved him. He was so tall and bronze . . . But she couldn’t let him get away with this.
“All right, faggot—start explaining!”
He smiled slightly. “I think you need glasses. I’d hardly say she was built like a boy.”
Her lip quivered. “I could take that better—”
“I’ll bet you could,” he said slowly. “You drove me to that.”
“I drove you!”
“You almost made me think I was a queer. Sure, I tried it with a few guys. In some crazy way I felt I wasn’t cheating on you. And you made me feel I wasn’t desirable to a woman. When was the last time you wanted me, Neely?”
“Why, you’re my husband. Whattaya mean, ’want you’? I always want you.”
“You want me around! To fight your battles at the studio, design your clothes, escort you to openings. B
ut as a man . . . You’re always too tired for sex. When did you think about it last?”
“You’re nuts!” she yelled. “Say, don’t try and switch things. I catch you red-handed and you stand there with your dingle blowing in the breeze and a naked broad in my cabana, and you sermonize with me! Who in hell is paying for this pool and this house?”
“Who wanted it?” Nonchalantly, he reached for a towel and draped it around his waist.
“We couldn’t live in that apartment you had.”
“Why not? It had eight rooms. But you needed the massage room, the projection room, this whole layout.”
“I never had a house.” She started to sob. “I wanted one so bad. I really don’t mind paying for it.”
“Then why do you throw it up to me ten times a day? And now who’s trying to switch things?”
“Well . . .” She could hardly keep her eyes open. His voice seemed to be coming from far away. Damn those pills. Now they were beginning to work. She watched him as he sat down casually in a beach chair.
“Ted . . . I come from the studio at six. Tonight I didn’t get back till eight. I’m beat. I have lines to study for the next day. I have to have a massage. How can I think of sex?”
“Why did you sign the new contract?” he asked quietly.
“That was six months ago. Are you still beefing about that?”
“Neely, you’re big now. And I’m doing great. I was willing to tear up the premarital agreement. You could have made a two-picture-a-year deal with any studio in town and left yourself a chance to live. I make enough money for both of us even if you never worked. But without telling me, you went and signed a new five-year deal.”
“I owed the money to the studio for the house. And Geez, Ted, with everyone panicky about television, I was lucky to get a long-term deal. When you have a long contract with a studio, you belong . . . you have a whole studio behind you.”