Valley of the Dolls by Jacqueline Susann
The cab crunched through the snow in the driveway and stopped before the house. Lyon stepped outside and stared silently.
“This is yours?” He turned to her, his eyes beaming with admiration. “Anne . . . it’s beautiful!”
“Picturesque in the snow,” she said balefully.
He paid Mr. Hill, wished him a Merry Christmas, and followed her inside. Anne was forced to admit the crackling fire made the large living room appear warm and inviting. She gave him a complete tour, and his eyes shone in approval of everything he saw. She knew he was not just being polite. He genuinely liked the house.
They cooked steaks in the large kitchen and ate before the fire in the living room. Lyon insisted on building a fire in the fireplace in the bedroom. She was surprised at his agility with the fire irons. “You forget, I spent most of my life in London where they don’t believe in central heating,” he reminded her.
Then he said, “This is a wonderful house. You’ve been too close to it to appreciate it. It suits you, you know. You look like you belong here.”
“Don’t even say that jokingly,” she threatened. “I don’t regard it as a compliment.”
On Sunday the snow stopped, and they took a long walk. They ran into half the town just leaving church. She waved but did not stop, and she felt a barrage of curious stares as they continued their walk.
When they returned to the house, Lyon worked on the fire and Anne brought him some sherry. “It’s the only thing I could find,” she said apologetically. “Not an ounce of whiskey.”
“You’re a fallen woman,” he said as he sipped his drink. “I saw your neighbors stare. They’ll check at the Inn and find I’m not registered. Looks like I’ll have to marry you quickly. Restore your honor in this town.”
“I don’t care what this town thinks of me.”
He sat down beside her. “Come on, my stubborn little New Englander, give in and admit this is really a marvelous house. What a wonderful room! That portrait over the fireplace—isn’t that a Sargent?”
“I think so. It’s my grandfather. I’m sending it to one of the galleries in New York. They’ve offered a good price.”
“Hold on to it. The price will go up.” He was quiet for a moment. “Anne, seriously . . . sitting here, you’ve never looked so beautiful. This is such a perfect setting for you—and you don’t look the least bit depressed to me. Lawrenceville seems to agree with you.”
“Only because you’re here, Lyon.”
“You mean, home is where the heart is . . .” He held her close and they both looked at the fire. After a while, still staring dreamily at the burning logs, he said, “It just might work at that . . .”
“What might work?”
“Us.”
She snuggled closer. “I always said it would. You might as well stop struggling. It’s inevitable.”
“I have around six thousand dollars. Anne, what are the taxes here each year?”
“Here?”
“Couldn’t be too steep. Remember, I said I couldn’t be married to you and let you support me. But I could accept the hospitality of this fine house. With my six thousand we could manage for a year. And if I get a decent advance on the book, I could start another. Anne—it could work!” He stood up, and rubbing his hands together, looked around the room. “Good Lord, it would really be marvelous. And I could write here.”
“Here?” The word stuck in her throat.
“Anne.” He knelt on the floor. “Nothing has been very proper about our relationship. But here, in this very fine and proper house, I will propose in a most proper fashion—on bended knee. Will you marry me?”
“Of course. But do you mean you want me to keep the house so you could come here and write? I’ll be glad to—but it would take so long to get here each weekend. . . .”
“We’d live here! Anne, it’s your house, but I could pay the taxes on it, buy the food. I’d be supporting you. One day I’ll make enough money to add to it in some way. That’s probably what your father did. Mr. Hill said your mother was born here. We’ll have roots, Anne. And I’ll make it. I’ll be a damn fine writer. You’ll see.”
“Live here?” She looked at him wildly.
“I’ll go back to New York and give Henry notice for both of us. If you like we can get married in New York. Jennifer is there—”
“Everything is there!”
“Nothing we can’t live without.”
“But Lyon, I hate it here! I hate this town—this house . . .”
For the first time he became aware of her panic. “Even with me?” he asked carefully.
She began to pace the room, trying desperately to collect her thoughts. She had to make him understand.
“Lyon . . . you say you could write here. You probably could, perhaps eight hours a day. But what would I do? Join the women’s clubs? Play bingo once a week? Renew my so-called friendships with the dreary girls I grew up with? And they wouldn’t accept you that quickly, Lyon. You’re an outsider. You have to be third-generation Lawrenceville to mean anything in this snobbish town. . . .”
His face relaxed. “So that’s what you’re worried about? I’d be ostracized. Well, don’t worry. I have a tough hide. We’ll go to church, be seen around. After they realize we mean to stay they’ll loosen up.”
“No—no! I won’t do it! I won’t live here!”
“Why, Anne?” His voice was very quiet.
“Lyon, don’t you understand? Just as you have certain principles—you couldn’t let me support you in New York—well, I have my blind spots too. Not many—in fact, just one. Lawrenceville! I hate it! I love New York. Before I came to New York I lived here, in this mausoleum. I was nothing. I was dead. When I came to New York it was like a veil lifting. For the first time I felt I was alive, breathing.”
“But now we have each other.” His eyes were direct, questioning.
“But not here,” she said with a moan. “Not here. Can’t you understand? A part of me would die.”
“Then, as I see it, you could only love me in New York. Sort of a package deal.”
“I love you, Lyon.” The tears were running down her face now. “I’d love you anywhere. And I’d go anywhere that your work took you. Any place but here . . .”
“And you wouldn’t even be willing to chance it—a year or two . . .”
“Lyon—I’ll sell the house . . . I’ll give you all the money . . . I’ll live in one room with you. But not here!”
He turned and poked at the fire. “I suppose that settles it.” Then he said, “I’d better put another log on the fire before I leave. It’s dying.”
She looked at her watch. “It’s early yet.”
“I’d best take the four o’clock train. Tomorrow’s a rough day, and with Christmas coming up on Wednesday . . .”
“I’ll go with you to the station.” She went to the phone and called Mr. Hill.
The fire was almost out when she returned. Without Lyon the room suddenly looked forbidding and bleak again. Oh, God, did Lyon understand? He had been so quiet on the drive to the station. “I’ll be back on Tuesday,” she had promised. “Nothing will keep me from being with you on Christmas.”
But when he got on the train he hadn’t turned and waved. She felt as if she were going to be sick. Damn Lawrenceville! It was like an octopus, reaching out and trying to drag her down.
Jennifer called the next day. She and Tony were living at the Essex House in a very nice suite. Miriam had taken a room down the hall. And Miriam had acted very nice about the whole thing. They were leaving for the Coast earlier now, January second. When was Anne coming back? They were giving a big Christmas Eve party tomorrow night.
“I’ll be there,” Anne promised. “But it looks as if things will never be settled here. I spoke to Henry a few days ago. He’s been wonderful—says to take as long as I need. But I’m coming in for Christmas. When Lyon calls tonight I’ll tell him about the party. We’ll see you then.”
Lyon didn’t call that ni
She put the call through at ten in the morning. Henry wasn’t in the office—neither was Lyon. She spoke to George Bellows.
“I don’t know where Lyon is,” George told her. “No one tells me anything around here. Lyon came in yesterday and took off at noon. Henry left for the Coast on Friday—an emergency with the Jimmy Grant show. Maybe he sent for Lyon. Like I said, no one tells me anything.”
She unpacked her bag. No use going to New York. She felt disappointment mingled with relief. Lyon had probably left for California—that’s why he hadn’t called. At least he wasn’t angry. He’d probably call that night and explain.
She spent Christmas Eve alone. Lyon didn’t call. At three in the morning she tried his apartment. Maybe he hadn’t gone to the Coast. Maybe he was sulking. There was no answer.
It was the worst Christmas she could remember. And she held Lawrenceville personally responsible. There were no more logs for the fireplace, so she turned the oil burner up. The house was well heated, but cold and dead. She sipped tea. She ate a few crackers. The radio didn’t quite drown out the endless chiming of the church bells, and the Christmas carols depressed her even more. This was the day to rejoice. And she was alone. Jennifer was with Tony, Neely was in California with Mel. But she was alone in Lawrenceville.
She spent the next few days with Mr. Walker. Everything was tagged, and gradually some order prevailed. She would be free to leave at the end of the week. But where was Lyon? Five days had passed. In desperation she tracked Henry down at the Beverly Hills Hotel in California.
“Henry, where is Lyon?”
“That’s what I’d like to know.” His voice crackled through the wires.
“Isn’t he out there with you?”
“No, I assumed he was with you.”
“I haven’t seen or heard from him since Sunday.”
“You’re kidding!” Henry was suddenly concerned. “I called the office yesterday afternoon. George said he hadn’t been in since Monday. I just naturally assumed he took off to spend Christmas with you.”
“Henry, we’ve got to find him!”
“Why? Is anything wrong? I mean—what could be wrong? A guy doesn’t just disappear. I’ve tried his apartment three nights in a row. He’s not there.”
“I’ll be back tomorrow. Henry, find him! Find him!” She was suddenly frightened.
“Now calm down. You two have a lovers’ quarrel?”
“Not really. A misunderstanding—but I didn’t think it was this serious.”
“I’ll be back tomorrow, too,” Henry told her. “Unless the weather is bad. I’m booked on a four o’clock plane this afternoon. Now relax. Lyon wouldn’t just run out on us. He’ll probably be in Monday with a logical explanation. Why don’t you relax there over the weekend?”
“Relax! I can’t wait to get out of here!”
She arrived back in New York to find a letter from Lyon waiting at her hotel.
Dear Anne,
Thank you for the moment of reckoning. I should say the five hours of reckoning. It was quite a long train ride, and gave me sufficient time to think things out. If I want to write, there’s only one thing to do—write. Until now I was constantly searching for excuses. I had to work for Henry, then your house—the perfect setting. Seems I want things tied up in a neat bundle—want the entire world to conform so I can write. Now who the hell am I? Kind of a cheeky attitude, wanting you to slink about like the self-sacrificing little author’s wife one reads about. As I see it, at the moment I am in limbo. I am not the driving Lyon Burke that Henry once knew, but neither am I the dedicated writer. I see nothing ahead but half truths—half an author, half a manager, putting off leaving Henry until I am a commercial success as a writer, putting off marriage because I cannot be a full-time husband, putting off writing because I must stay with Henry. Until now I have only given a part of myself to you, Henry and writing. It’s obvious I’m not capable of giving to all three. If not, I should at least pull out of the lives of the two people I care most about. I have written most of these same thoughts to Henry. George Bellows is a good man—he is the man for Henry. And somewhere in your wonderful New York, my dearest, there is the right man for you, just waiting for you to find him.
I told you I have a bit of money. I also have access to a large, unheated house in the north of England. It belongs to relatives, but no one uses it. I shall open a few rooms. I could live there for years on a few quid, and I shall write even if my knuckles turn blue. We have only a few hours of daylight during the winter. Lawrenceville is the tropics in comparison. But no one will disturb me.
I have enclosed the keys to my apartment, dear Anne. It is the one practical thing I can do for you. With Jennifer married you are alone, and a flat is still hard to find. And I did inherit this with all the furniture due to your largess. I think it only fitting that you wind up with it. It’s not much. I’ve taken your wonderful gift, the typewriter. But if the flat pleases you, take over the lease. And don’t do anything silly like waiting for me. I warn you—I shall marry the first plump English maiden who will cook and tend for me. And years from now, if I do turn out any book that is halfway good, we can both say, “At least there was one thing he did whole-heartedly.”
I loved you, Anne. But you are too wonderful to accept such a small part of a small person who tried to scatter himself in so many directions. So I shall concentrate on writing—at least in that way I can hurt no one but myself.
Thank you for the most wonderful year of my life.
Lyon
Jennifer
May, 1947
Jennifer sat beside the pool in the shade. She read Anne’s letter again. She sounded happy enough—it was the first letter without a mention of Lyon. Maybe she was finally over it. But how could she live in his apartment? Did she still hope he’d come walking in one day? After five months? Imagine, not one word from him! Just showed, you could never tell what really went on inside a man’s head. Take all those pictures of her with Tony. They looked so happy—the perfect young Hollywood couple!
The sun crept under the umbrella. She reached out and bent the framework down to shield herself. Sure—a girl who got hives if she sat in the sun had to wind up in California. She glared angrily at the blazing orange ball. It was always there. It was the one thing in California you could count on. On occasion there might be a slight fog in the morning, but inevitably the lemon disc would make an appearance, timidly at first; then, as if inflating itself, it would brighten and inhale the mist and clouds and emerge triumphant and alone in a china-blue sky.
She sighed. Every day here since her arrival in January had been like the middle of July. How did those damn oranges grow if it never rained? It was May in New York. In the East you appreciated good weather when it finally arrived. She thought about New York. The first balminess must be in the air. The heavy winter coats had been stored away and people were sitting outside the cafeteria in Central Park. And you could walk in New York! You never appreciated the privilege of walking until you lived in California. You could even walk at night in New York. If you had nothing to do you could walk down Fifth Avenue and look in the stores, or go to a late movie, or walk down Broadway and buy a hot dog. Here, if you walked down Beverly Drive at night, a prowl car picked you up.
Well, at least Anne had New York. According to her letters she was going out a lot, but she never mentioned anyone special. Probably still waiting for Lyon. Well, at least that was something tangible.
But what was she waiting for? Another day to pass? There was a party for tonight. It didn’t thrill her, but it was better than playing gin with Tony. He couldn’t even concentrate on that, because Miriam kept hanging over him, telling him every card to play. If Miriam would only let him think for himself once in a while.
Sh
She did her best. She floated through parties like a grinning zombie. She made no friends. Miriam was right, beauty was a cheap commodity in Hollywood. There were millions of beautiful nobodies. The girls who hung out at Schwab’s were beautiful, the carhops were beautiful—yet most of the big stars were not the spectacular beauties. Jane Wyman was pert looking. Barbara Stanwyck was smart, chic; so was Rosalind Russell. Joan Crawford was striking. Boy, this was a pistol. All these years thinking she had something special because her teeth were good, her nose was straight and she had big boobs. Big boobs weren’t even in style. Adrian and Ted Casablanca and all the other big designers had created the broad-shouldered look. Big boobs only got in the way.
It would be another nothing evening. She was no one, just Mrs. Polar, the wife of a promising newcomer. Oh yes, he was on radio, someone might say. But that didn’t mean a thing out here. You had to be in pictures—and a wife didn’t mean anything. In fact, a wife held the same social status as a screenwriter—necessary but anonymous. Even the starlets rated more attention at parties. Starlets were always available, ready for any kind of action. Starlets knew producers and often had hilarious inside stories to tell—the big screen star who always yelled “Mother!” when he reached the climax, the movie mogul who wanted his wife to watch. . . . Sure, starlets could garner plenty of attention at parties. But a wife—a wife lived in limbo. Too respected to be approached, too unimportant to rate respect. At most parties she wound up at the bar, discussing old times with the hired bartenders, who all hailed from New York, talking nostalgically about Sardi’s and Lindy’s. It was easier than talking to the other displaced wives, who cared only about the servant problem and tennis.