Valley of the Dolls by Jacqueline Susann
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 away.
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 They’ll write that you’re withdrawn, antisocial.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 s
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 wil
“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.