Dolores

by Jacqueline Susann

  satisfaction ... you are. Does that make you happy when you climb into your virginal bed? Do all the photographs in newspapers and on magazine covers make up for the lack of any emotion in your life? Emotions you've never tapped or never known—"

  "You know so little about me," she said quietly.

  "I know you like I know my right hand." They had pulled up before her apartment. He got out of the car, and took her to the elevator.

  "Michael, you don't have to see me up."

  "It will only take a minute," he said as he pressed for the elevator. "Listen, Dolores, marry the Chief Justice. He's old enough not to bother you with sex. He has a lovely house in Georgetown, a farm in Chevy Chase, an apartment here, and . . ." He pressed the elevator button impatiently. "Where the hell is that elevator man?"

  "He's probably delivering papers on each floor." She looked up. "He's coming down now. Michael, try not to hiui that little actress."

  "I love her."

  She smiled mistily as the elevator arrived. "I hope the show runs forever. Have a wonderful night tonight. Please, don't bother coming up." She looked at her watch. "The notices will be coming out any minute. She'll need you if they're bad and she'll want to share them with you if they're good."

  He stared at her oddly. "Dolores, no wonder

  you're talked about as the most complex woman in the world. Suddenly I don't feel I know you all that well. . . ." Then he turned and hurried back to his car.

  Soap and Water

  The notices had been excellent, and she saw Michael occasionally. Once they went to the opera (while June was doing her own show), and, with Colin along, they all went to Sardi's.

  And on the fifteenth of May, Barry returned. He rushed to her apartment, tanned and as handsome as ever. For the first time he completely disregarded the children and grabbed her . . . kissed her and said, "Oh God, how I've missed you." And then he was hugging the twins and kissing a suddenly shy Mary Lou. "You've grown," he told her. "Soon you'll be as tall as Mommy."

  "Will I be as pretty as Mommy?"

  "Prettier," he said.

  And that night they lay locked in one an-

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  other's arms as if they had never been apart. "Can you stay the night?" she whispered.

  "No . . . this is a 'board meeting' night."

  "Will she go to the coimtry Jime fifteenth as usual?"

  "Yes . . . and then well have five days and nights together for three months. Just weekends apart."

  "All right. Then 111 send the twins to camp also."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, Mary Lou is all set for camp in Maine. I was going to keep the twins with me and go to Virginia with them on weekends . . . and leave them there most of the summer. But this time I'll send them to camp. Then I'll have no obligations. I'll be completely free for you. And I'll visit Bridget on weekends."

  He kissed her gently. "I love you so much, Dolores."

  "Not as much as I love you/' she said.

  He rolled over and lit a cigarette. "I feel as if we're entitled to this love. I spent five hellish weeks with Constance and Debbie, watching them play backgammon, going to bed early with Constance . . . Oh, no sex. In the past we only had that twice a month when her charts said she was most likely to conceive. But thank God all that's over. She's terrified it might raise her blood pressure. But the trip was murder. All I had for com-

  pany was some gay Muscle Beach athlete Debbie had along. I'd get wiped out each morning just watching him do twenty minutes of pushups. He's twenty-eight and confided in me that he wants to marry her."

  "Do you think she will?"

  He ground out his cigarette. "Debbie's too smart. She'll be fifty-six next month and she has enough money to buy herself handsome gay guys or not too gay guys imtil she's a hundred and six."

  "She looks very well for her age."

  "Why shouldn't she? Constance told me she's had everything lifted. I've got to give Constance credit ... her figure is still good and imtil her illness she worked at it. Twenty minutes a day of yoga ... no carbohydrates. She's gained a few pounds now and she's worried sick. In fact she's going to ask her doctor whether she can have some 'lifts' in her condition."

  Dolores stretched in bed. His body was so firm. "Do you think I need it?"

  He laughed. "You're a child."

  "I'm thirty-nine ..."

  "Well, Constance will be fifty, and even she gets by with a good facial and the proper makeup. But you'd better start going easy on the sim tanning bit."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, Constance has great skin because she never gets near the sim. And you're a sun wor-

  sKiper. Debbie also stays out of the sun. She says most of those Palm Beach women look like mahogany pnmes. And you know something . . . they do. Once a woman gets in her forties and keeps up that deep tan it does something to her skin."

  "Is that what I look like to you—a mahogany prune?"

  "You look like my golden tigress. But the next ten years is when the danger starts. So go easy on the sim. I want you to be this beautiful always."

  "ril get a face-lift tomorrow."

  He laughed as he started to dress. "They can't lift sun-dried skin."

  "Since when have you become such an expert?" she asked.

  He laughed. "I could write a book on the care of the skin and body after forty. That's all I heard on the yacht for five weeks. Even Nattire Boy rubbed himself down with a concoction of oil before he took his sim baths. And he didn't just lie in the sim . . . oh no . . . twenty minutes on one side . . . twenty on the other . . . then a glass of milk..."

  "Milk?"

  "He claims the sun gives the body a certain acidity and the milk alkalizes it. Want to hear any more of this fascinating small talk? I heard it throughout the day and with every meal. Oh, and

  the newest fad is to have an exercise man come in ... he pulls yotir legs and you're supposed to fight

  him."

  Dolores laughed. "Good Lord, and all I've been doing is using soap and water, riding a bike, and taking long walks."

  "Good girl!" He was dressed now and she lay naked under the sheets. He had turned on the lights and for the first time she was afraid to get out of bed. Had her thighs gotten loose? Was her rear sagging a bit? He let himself out after kissing her and telling her he would come by for a drink the following day. The moment he was gone she leaped out of bed and ran into the bathroom. There was a full-length three-way mirror there. She turned on all the lights and studied herself. Her breasts were firm. Thighs good . . . very faint stretch marks . . . you had to really look to find them. She turned around ... her fanny was getting a little loose . . . had it dropped ... or was it her imagination?

  Free

  The next day she went to Elizabeth Arden's; had a facial and bought a hiindred dollars' worth of special creams and facial packs. Then she called a well-known exercise class and asked if a teacher would come to her home each morning.

  She kept at it for ten days. She exercised frenetically, her face and body oiled with a special cream, covered with a heavy leotard that was also supposed to melt away any excess bulges. At the end of two weeks she had lost one half a potmd . .. her fanny looked the same and her skin hadn't turned to velvet. She discharged the exercise man and forgot about the cream.

  She allowed herself to get tan every weekend

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  when she visited Bridget, but she no longer lay in it for hours with oil on her face. And she spent every night during the week with Barry.

  And then one night in August he didn't appear. She waited with dinner ... no call. . . nothing. At midnight he jfinally phoned. "Dolores . . . I'm sorry ... I couldn't get to you imtil now. Constance had a stroke. I'm at the hospital now ... in a phone booth."

  "Oh God, how is she?"

  "Touch and go. It's her right side. At the moment she's completely paralyzed and has no speech. The doctors say with physical therapy she has an excellent chance of a complete
recovery. She'll also need speech therapy. It's going to be a long haul, but they say her age is all for her. Most people who get strokes are in their sixties or seventies. I'm going to sleep in a room adjoining hers at the hospital. I'll call you tomorrow."

  She was just falling asleep when he called again. "She's dead," he said quietly.

  "Oh Barry . . . how . . . when?"

  "Ten minutes ago ... a massive cerebral hemorrhage. Look . . . I'm in the phone booth and I see her sisters getting off the elevator. Her brother is already here. I'll call you when I get the chance."

  "Barry . . . don't worry about me. Ill be here ... waiting."

  "Oh God, Debbie Morrow just arrived with her latest young man. I'd better go." The receiver clicked in her ear.

  She didn't hear from him for three days. Constance's death made big news. The fimeral made all the TV news shows due to the society people who were Constance's friends and the top government officials who came in deference to Barry. Dolores sent flowers but felt it would be hypocritical to go. She sat home close to the phone and waited.

  He arrived unannounced at her apartment two days after the fxmeral.

  "Barry!" She held him close. "What you must have been through. Can I get you a drink?"

  "Make me a stiJFf vodka martini . . . straight up." He sat down and ran his hands through his hair. "Oh God . . . funerals are barbaric. And courtesy calls even worse. All of my father's friends came. All of her friends came and drank. Debbie presided as if it were a giant marathon cocktail party. I even got a condolence wire from the President."

  (They were free to marry now—after a respectable time—but she knew it wouldn't be wise to say anything.)

  He swallowed half his drink in one gulp. "That bitch . . . that dirty evil bitch."

  "Barry!"

  "I've just come from the lawyer's office," he said. "Do you know what? All the time we were married, she was secretly giving her millions to her sisters ... to endowments ... to charities . . . setting up trusts for her sisters' children. Because she didn't have children and was older than I, she felt if she died first, I'd marry some cupcake. Of course since her first bout with high blood pressure, she went into double action. She even willed her jewelry to her grandnieces."

  "And what about you?"

  "Oh I'm in great shape!" His voice was heavy v^th sarcasm. He lit a cigarette and held out his empty glass for a refill.

  "Well, legally she can't cut you out," Dolores said as she mixed another drink.

  "Oh no. She had expert advice. I get twenty-five thousand a year—which I pay taxes on. I'm free to live in all the residences . . . and the estate will take care of the help, pay the taxes, etcetera . . . and ... oh this is the real generous part . . . if I'm alive and unmarried at the age of sixty-five, I inherit five million dollars. But if I'm married— nothing!"

  "Is that legal?"

  He nodded. "I signed some kind of a paper when I married her. Oh the rich—the very rich— always make you sign papers. It seems it stated all of this .. . but good God, I was thirty-five then

  and she was forty-one. I had no money. I knew I'd never make it or stay at the law firm on my own. The glamour of my father's name was beginning to fade. I was well educated to do nothing! So I signed it. Constance was attractive enough ... I had had plenty of affairs . . . who ever figured I'd fall in love with you!"

  He took the drink she handed him. He sipped it and shook his head like a man emerging from the water. She sat at his feet and sipped at a weak Scotch. Her head had to be clear.

  "Look, Barry, I don't need this large apartment. If I spoke to Bridget and explained how I felt about you, I'm sure she'd let me sell it and keep the money. It would bring in four himdred thousand dollars easily. I'm sure you could hold your law position .. . especially if you married me. Our names together would be quite glamorous. We could get a smaller apartment, perhaps on Park Avenue, and with my thirty and your twenty thousand . . . I'm sure we could manage."

  He seemed to be thinking about it as he sipped his drink. "I don't know whether it would be all that easy," he said. "Don't forget, as a married couple we'd have to entertain. Part of my asset to the law firm was the excellent dinner parties Constance gave with just the right people who might be new clients." He shook his head. "No ... we could never swing it on fifty thousand

  a year. Don't forget, I'd lose the extra twenty-five she's left me, and I still have to pay taxes on my twenty thousand."

  "But I'd have the extra four hundred thousand from this apartment..."

  "And how long would that last? We're not exactly going to erect a tent on Park Avenue. We'd still have to find a decent apartment, and even a smaller place in the right location would cost a himdred thousand, and we'd have to have a cook, a chauffeur, maid, nurse for the children . . . no, it couldn't work."

  "Don't you think with my name I could bring you many new clients?"

  "Perhaps. But once you became too public, your glamour would end."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Dolores, everyone talks about you because ihey don't see you aroimd. They speculate about you . . . what is she really like? At the moment, getting you to attend a dinner party would be a hostess's biggest triumph. But once you started playing hostess . . . attending dinner parties with me . . . going to the cotmtry club ... in one year, the mystique and glamour would go. You'd just be Dolores Haines. Look ... I know. When Dad died, the Haines name had great weight. One of my brothers became Governor just because of the name. He also married a very rich woman because

  he didn't get elected for the second term. I was offered everything in the beginning. I knew all the offers were because of the Haines name . . . and what business that name might bring to the company. I also could have had my share of debutantes. But I foimd out that the ones I liked—the beautiful ones—were penniless. The rich beautiful ones went to Europe to find titles. It's incredible to think that's still being done. But it is. And then I met Constance, and I knew that with Constance I could live in style and hold my job at the law firm. If I lose it now, I'll still have the twenty-five thousand a year from her estate. That is, if I'm not married."

  She smiled weakly. Then she slid into his lap. "Look, the world hasn't come to an end. We still have one another . . . and now we can go out publicly."

  "Not for a year."

  "A year!"

  "That's supposed to be the proper mourning period, isn't it? Oh, I can go out with men, or attend a dinner party alone given by some of Constance's friends, but the first time you and I go out publicly ... it will be an event."

  "All right. Today is August twentieth. Next August twentieth, well go to Marbella together. And by then I'll find a friend who has a yacht. We can also visit Nita ... we can have a marvelous

  summer. And meanwhile, for the coming year we'll just go along as we've been doing in the past. And ril wait until you're sixty-five and inherit yoiu: money and then we'll get a priest to make the whole imion respectable."

  He Likes His Women Thin

  In some ways it was a wonderful year. She managed to have Bridget invite Barry to the farm for Thanksgiving dinner, explaining that he was lonely and that it would be a nice gestiire. ''Also . . . the twins adore him. They're getting to the age where they need to see a man ... to roughhouse with . .. to talk with . . . I . . . I've invited him to the apartment for drinks occasionally and . . ."

  Bridget had nodded with almost an approving smile. "Never mind . . . you are both handsome healthy yoimg people. I'd be delighted to have him."

  Qiristmas was wonderful. She had sent the children to Virginia a week earlier. And she and Barry had a week alone together. On Christmas

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  Eve he gave her a small diamond circlet pin from Cartier's. She knew it only cost three himdred dollars. And she had spent fourteen himdred for the gold digital watch at Tiffany's. He was like a child when he saw it. Then he said, 'T wish I could have spent more for you .. . but I'm strapped. The few evenings I have to attend di
nner parties means sending flowers . . . and I have to keep up the box at the opera ... that wasn't included in the will... but Debbie and all of Constance's friends insist on it . . . and Jesus, I have to take one of them each time. It's not bad enough to be saddled with the opera, which I hate, but to be saddled with Debbie, and that sister of hers, Eleanora. She's almost as rich as Debbie and she's married to an AC-DC guy. You can imagine the thrilling evenings we all have together."

  And then in March, Timothy Ryan died. Dolores had no choice but to spend the entire week with the family. It fell close to Easter so she took the children out of school and they went to the farm. The children enjoyed it immensely. Michael's children were there and Joyce was there with the new baby. Of course, Michael had various excuses . to get back to New York, and some evenings he didn't make it back to the farm. Joyce was too preoccupied with the new baby to bother and Dolores foimd herself delegated as Bridget's companion. After Easter, Bridget pleaded with her to stay on— the other sisters had to return . . . their children

  went to parochial school. . . they had to get back. Dolores said her children had to get back also. Bridget sighed but made her promise to come every weekend. She held Dolores close. "I think I love you more than my own children. I understand you, Dolores. You know when my husband was yotmg —and with five pregnancies almost in a row—^he took up with a glamorous sculptress. She was mediocre in talent, but had the looks of a beauty queen. He kept her in grand style and bought exhibitions for her and forced his friends into buying her work. That liaison lasted ten years. Oh, he was always home on weekends, holidays . . . but I was left to raise the children. He even cheated on the sculptress with a refugee, a princess who had no money. He set her up very well and there's talk that the nephew who suddenly came to live with her a few years later is really his son. I know what you went through with Jimmy—like father, like son. I know that Michael's late evenings must be devoted to some woman, but Joyce is a placid girl— she's wrapped up in her children, it would never enter her mind that he would have another woman. And like me, she has the Church. But I feel for you—^because even though you were bom a Catholic, religion doesn't seem to play a large part in your life. Well, when I was newly married, all I had to turn to was the Church, and when one of my children was very ill with diphtheria, I prayed. And I promised I would go to Mass every day if