Jacqueline Susann's Shadow of the Dolls

by Rae Lawrence

  “Thank you for a lovely evening,” she said. “Dinner was wonderful.”

  “So Neely O’Hara is an old friend of yours?” Bill asked.

  Anne smiled. “Not really a friend,” she said. “And not really so old.”

  * * *

  Anne kept Bill’s card in her handbag for the rest of May. The first weekend in June, she and Gretchen spent two days in a whirlwind of housework, washing the curtains, rearranging the silverware drawers, reorganizing the closets, and the card ended up in a pile of bills that didn’t need to be paid quite yet.

  “Where do you want these?” Gretchen asked, pointing to three shoeboxes filled with old snapshots from Anne’s first years in New York.

  “Oh God, I can barely bring myself to think about those anymore,” said Anne.

  “Can I peek?”

  “I guess,” Anne said.

  The photograph of Anne with Neely and Jennifer North was on top.

  “Wow, you were a total babe!” Gretchen cried. “Oh, I’m sorry, I mean you’re still a babe. But this picture. You were a babe-and-a-half!”

  It was a photograph Jennifer had taken with a self-timing camera set up on a dresser top. The three of them were in a hotel room, getting ready to go to a party in Beverly Hills.

  “Man oh man, look at your hair,” Gretchen said.

  “I don’t miss hot rollers,” Anne said with a laugh.

  “Who is she?” Gretchen asked, pointing.

  “Jennifer North.”

  “She’s … she’s beautiful. She’s more than beautiful. She’s perfect. You guys were friends?”

  “Best friends.” Anne told her the story, how Jennifer had been discovered, the movies she had made, the men she had slept with. “It was a real Hollywood story, the kind that doesn’t happen anymore. I haven’t heard the phrase ‘sex symbol’ in ages, but that’s really what she was. People looked at her and all they could think about was sex. But there was so much more to her. She was the nicest, sweetest person I ever met. All she wanted was to find some nice man and settle down and have babies.”

  “So what happened?”

  “She finally found the man of her dreams, and then she got breast cancer. And she couldn’t bear to tell anybody. Jennifer was a lot of wonderful things, but she wasn’t strong. She freaked out when they told her exactly what the surgery would do, and took some sedatives to get through the night. Too many, as it turned out.”

  “She overdosed?”

  “Accidental,” Anne lied. “You know, from the minute I found out I was pregnant I just knew it was going to be a girl, and I knew I would name her after Jennifer.” She took the photograph from Gretchen and put it back in the box. “Let’s put these away before I get all weepy. We still have the whole downstairs to do.”

  In July, Anne spent a day catching up on bills. She tossed Bill’s card in the cut-glass bowl where she saved paperwork to be filed—receipts that might be needed for income taxes, address changes that would be copied over into her Rolodex when Christmas-card time rolled around again.

  August was cooler than expected, and sometimes Anne awoke in the morning wrapped up like a mummy in her summer quilts. It was amazing what could happen to the bedclothes when you slept alone. One morning she woke up to find she had completely reversed herself—her head pressed against the foot of the bed—with the three extra pillows piled on top of her back.

  It was the day of Neely’s party. Curtis had been preparing for it all week. Anne had taken a few days off to spend time with Jenn, who was in a deep sulk after finding out that her trip to visit Lyon in London was being canceled at the last minute. Too much work, trouble on the set, Lyon had told them. Too much fun, a new girlfriend on the set, Anne suspected.

  Today they were baking berry pies. Gretchen had bought several pints of blueberries at one of the farm stands outside of town. Jenn was watching her roll the cool dough across a floured wooden board.

  “I bet we have enough to make four pies,” Jenn said.

  “At least,” Gretchen said.

  Just when the last pie was coming out of the oven, Curtis telephoned in a panic.

  “I have tragic news. I need you to come over right away.”

  Anne thought of Jerry—his smoking, his weight. “Oh, my God, what’s happened?” she cried.

  “It’s terrible. Three people called in sick on me this morning. Three of my best people.”

  “Three? How could three people get sick all at once?”

  “Annie, sweetheart, someday when I have the time, when I’m not in total crisis mode, when I don’t have one of the biggest parties of the year in four hours and half my staff unconscious in bed with the flu, remind me to explain to you about these little things called germs. Meanwhile. I need you. I desperately need you.”

  “Anything you need.”

  “I need you to come over and help with Neely O’Hara’s birthday party.”

  “Except that.”

  “Please. Pretty please. Pretty please with Robert Redford on top.”

  “I can’t. You know I can’t.”

  “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t an emergency. No one even has to know you’re there. You can help with setup and then hide in the kitchen the whole time. But I cannot do this by myself.”

  “Oh, Curtis. I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have a choice. You have to say yes.”

  “Can I think about it?”

  “And Gretchen, I need Gretchen, too. Can she wait tables? Tell her I’ll pay her eighty dollars for the night, in cash.”

  “Someone has to look after Jenn.”

  “I need both of you. You can bring Jenn, maybe we’ll even let her help.”

  “Curtis, I don’t think this is going to work. Anyway, Neely won’t want me there.”

  “What Neely O’Hara wants is a dinner where it doesn’t take an hour to serve all the guests. I’ll take care of Miss O’Hara.”

  “Look. I just … I just can’t.”

  “You’re my friend. I need you.”

  “It’s more complicated than that,” Anne said.

  “It’s never more complicated than that. Friends help friends. If this party doesn’t go well, every potential client between Quogue and Montauk will know about it within twenty-four hours.”

  “Give me five minutes to think about it.”

  “Absolutely not. I’ll pick you up in an hour. What’s Gretchen wearing?”

  “Black jeans and a tank top.”

  “Fine. I’ll bring a white shirt for her. Please do something with her hair so it doesn’t look so … so mall. And Annie?”

  “Yes, Curtis.”

  “Remember. I love you a lot.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “I love you truly and deeply, the way only an aging queen with a weight problem can love the most beautiful ex-supermodel in the universe.”

  Anne hung up and turned to Jenn and Gretchen. “Guess what?” she said. “We’re going to a party.”

  “Whose party?” Jenn asked. “Is it going to be fun?”

  “It’s not that kind of party,” Anne said.

  * * *

  Anne was in the kitchen, watching the pastry chef dust two hundred pieces of flourless chocolate cake with powdered sugar in the shape of a comet. Gretchen was outside, clearing dinner dishes and trying not to stare too hard at all the celebrities. Jenn was upstairs with Neely’s son Judd, losing at Monopoly. Dylan was locked in his room with the headphones on, listening to the Beastie Boys.

  Neely was outside, under the stars, waltzing across the midnight-blue dance floor that had been built next to the tennis court and stenciled with various constellations: Orion, the Big Dipper, Sagittarius. Originally Neely had wanted a circus-themed party, striped tenting and jugglers and rented animals. Curtis had talked her into an astronomy theme by saying three magic words: “It seems classier.” They were the same words he had used to talk her out of the belly dancer, the see-through dress, the individual strawberry-cheesecak
e desserts.

  There was a new moon and a clear sky. At the far corners of the lawn, large rented telescopes were set up, manned by astronomy students brought out from the city. Guests lined up to look at the rings of Saturn and the tail of a minor comet.

  Neely swirled around the floor with George Dunbar’s wife’s cousin, a senator from the Midwest visiting on vacation. Candlelight reflected off the folds of her dress, a simple silvery knit, cut straight with slits at the side for dancing and a deep V-neck that showed off the new cleavage she had bought in Palm Springs.

  “I’m having a wonderful time,” he said, looking down at her chest.

  “Me too. Dave is such a doll. I didn’t even want this party, but he insisted, he practically had to twist my arm, and I’m so glad he did.” Where was Dave? He had left the table just as the main course was cleared to go get the cigars, but that was at least ten minutes ago. She looked over the senator’s shoulder and saw Dave leaning over a telescope with a young redhead in a tight green dress. Probably someone’s date. The woman had long legs, impossibly long legs, the kind of legs that Dave couldn’t help but check out when he and Neely went to the beach together.

  Each time Neely circled back around with the senator, she found Dave and the girl, still stargazing together. It was probably harmless flirting—Dave was a producer, maybe the girl was an actress, so it went—but it seemed to be going on a little too long. And those legs. There were so many parts of the body to nip, to tuck, to lift, to augment or reduce, to peel and inject. But so far there was nothing anyone could do about Neely’s not-quite-long-enough legs.

  The photographer appeared with a fresh roll of film just as the band segued into a Latin number.

  “Oh, I gotta go fix my face,” Neely said. “You made me work up a sweat!”

  “I apologize.”

  She winked. “I kinda like it.” Everyone said he had the happiest marriage in the Senate, but you never knew. She didn’t want to let go of Dave until she had a better prospect all lined up.

  “You should come visit us in Washington sometime.”

  “I’d love to. I love Washington. And of course I’d love to meet your wife.”

  “My wife travels a lot,” the senator said.

  “If I were married to a man like you, I wouldn’t leave you alone for a minute.”

  “And if I were married to a woman like you, I wouldn’t leave you alone, either.” They walked together toward the bar. “But that’s the sad thing about life, isn’t it? People like me don’t get to marry people like you.”

  “What exactly does that mean?” Neely asked.

  “I meant it as a compliment. You know. A beautiful woman with a past.” He signaled to the bartender. “But you must come visit us sometime.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Neely said. She watched him order a very expensive glass of Cognac. She walked back to the house, her face burning. What was worse? That men like him would never think her good enough? Or that they thought it so obvious, they didn’t mind saying it?

  There was Anne at the kitchen table, making checkmarks on a pink index card.

  “Everything going okay?” Neely asked.

  “Just peachy.”

  “You’re a peach for helping out. Hey, who is that waitress with the pink lipstick?”

  “I’m not sure who you mean.”

  “You know. Bad dye job, black jeans a little too tight, some pretty nasty acne scars.”

  “Oh. You mean Gretchen. She’s my baby-sitter, actually. She’s pinch-hitting as a favor to Curtis.”

  “Yeah, well, can you assign her to another table?”

  “Has she done something wrong?”

  “Nope, I just want her at another table. Put her at table ten,” Neely said. That’s where she had placed all the obligation guests: her accountant and his wife, Dave’s cousins, and various unglamorous neighbors. Gretchen was not especially attractive—bad skin, large nose, and a terrible overbite that there had never been money to fix—but from the neck down she was gorgeous, and Dave had noticed, and Neely had noticed Dave noticing.

  “No trouble,” Anne said. “I’ll send over one of the guys. Whatever you like.” Whatever, whatever, whatever, she thought. Earlier in the evening, nervous about whom she might run into, Anne had taken some Xanax. The pill had kicked in just as the first guest was arriving. It was the loveliest feeling, like falling back into a soft, deep featherbed. She had brought another, just in case, but so far no one had come into the kitchen except Neely and Dave.

  Upstairs, Neely applied more powder and another coat of lipstick. One of her sandals felt a little wobbly; she saw that the heel was beginning to separate from the sole. She went to the big walk-in closet at the far end of the master bedroom to find another pair of sandals. What went with silver? White? Black patent leather? She switched on the closet light and heard the pop of the light bulb giving out. She sat on the floor of the closet, feeling her way along the rows of shoes, trying to figure out, from the curve of a heel or the width of a strap, which pair was which.

  Someone came into the bedroom.

  “I just love seeing these big old East Hampton houses,” a woman was saying. “You have the most fabulous artwork.”

  “My ex picked out most of it,” Dave said.

  Neely caught her breath. The voice sounded young, not like anyone she could identify. “How ex?” the woman asked. “Very ex.”

  “How long have you been with Neely O’Hara?”

  “A little over a year.”

  “I love her records. My mother was a huge fan. I can’t wait to tell her I got a tour of Neely O’Hara’s house.”

  “It’s my house. Her house is in Los Angeles.”

  I should get up right now, Neely thought, but she stayed cross-legged on the floor of the closet, leaning forward a little so she could see them both through the open door.

  “Well,” the girl said. “She’s a very lucky woman. I bet they were falling all over you, after you split with your wife.”

  “Not really.”

  “Oh, come on. An attractive guy like you? I bet you had to fight them off.”

  “Not really.”

  Neely watched the woman push the bedroom door closed and twist the lock.

  “Hey,” Dave said.

  “Hey yourself,” she said. “You know I’m really attracted to you. You have a really … a really powerful presence.”

  “I can’t do this.”

  “I know you feel it, too. I can tell when you look at me.”

  “We should go back down.”

  “All right.” She leaned against the wall and began hiking up the green dress, over her knees, up past her waist. “I just want you to see what you’re missing.”

  “Come on, this isn’t the time.”

  “I can make you come in two minutes.” She slipped a hand into her lace bikini. “I’m already wet just thinking about you.”

  “Hey, come on. I think you’ve had a little too much to drink.”

  “And it was such lovely champagne.… mmm. You can just watch if you want.” She closed her eyes and began breathing through her mouth. Dave moved toward her, undoing his trousers. She wrapped a leg around his waist and clasped her hands behind his neck.

  It didn’t even take two minutes. She pulled down her dress and smoothed the back of her hair.

  “I can’t believe we did that,” Dave said.

  “I knew I was going to fuck you the minute I saw you.”

  “I have to get back to the party.”

  “Right, the party. Hey, how well do you know Jamie Walters?”

  “Well enough. We’ve worked together on a couple of things.”

  “I’m auditioning for him next week. A cable show, women’s lifestyle stuff? Gardening, cooking, decorating, like that. Maybe you could put in a word?”

  “I thought you lived in Phoenix.”

  “I’m thinking of moving back here. If I got this job. We could be neighbors. You could come by and borrow a cup of sugar any old time
.”

  “Let me think about it,” Dave said, unlocking the door. “You wait a minute here, I don’t want anyone seeing us together.”

  The woman went to Neely’s dressing table and fluffed up her bangs. She picked up a few perfume bottles, examined their labels, and then dabbed some Chanel No. 22 behind her knees. Neely lay down on the floor of the closet. It wasn’t fair; it was her party and everything was turning out wrong. All the vitamins in the world couldn’t make this feeling go away.

  Downstairs, Anne had snuck into the back bathroom behind the kitchen to pop another half tab of Xanax. She ran the tap water with the lights off, drinking from her cupped hands.

  Through the open window she could see the couples dancing, hear the old Cole Porter tune that Lyon used to hum in her ear. She watched Stella and Arthur taking a dip in the corner of the floor. She watched people who had called once or twice, inviting her to a lunch or afternoon at the ballet. She watched people who had invited her daughter over for a play date, sharing a quick and awkward cup of coffee with her when she came to pick up Jenn. She watched people who had never called at all.

  Not that she had found any of these parties so thrilling when she was invited to them. But now, leaning against the cold porcelain in a small, dark bathroom, she felt the bright red rage of a woman who has been overlooked. She was Cinderella without glass slippers, without a Prince Charming to carry her away. She was stuck, and no one seemed to notice.

  When the pill kicked in, she turned on the light and looked in the mirror. Back to work. The check would help cover her real estate taxes, and maybe even a facial. She sure needed one.

  Neely came down to find Anne counting out soup spoons, humming along with the band.

  “There you are,” Anne said. “Dave was looking for you.”

  “I bet. Get me a glass of champagne, will ya?”

  Anne lifted an eyebrow.

  “It’s just champagne. Oh, all right, never mind, I’ll get it myself.” Neely poured herself a glass and sat down at the table. “So, how’s the auditioning going?” No matter how bad things were for Neely, they were worse for Anne. This little chat would be just the thing to cheer Neely up.