Shadow of the Dolls

by Jacqueline Susann

  And she would probably get an Emmy nomination for a guest role on a courtroom drama he owned a piece of. Originally Dave hadn’t thought her right for the part (the wife of a record-company executive murdered by a teenage fan), but she’d finally talked him into it. Not that talking had anything to do with it. It hadn’t taken Neely long to figure out when was the best time to ask Dave for favors: he might be a killer negotiator at the office, but in the bedroom she knew just what buttons to push.

  Tonight she had a big favor to ask. She was wearing a black lace nightgown over a black satin bra that fastened in the front. She cupped her breasts, lifted them two inches, released them, lifted them, and dropped them again. She wished she hadn’t let Dave talk her out of a breast lift. In six weeks they’d be back in the Hamptons, which meant string bikinis and the whole world staring at her boobs. Why did she have to listen to him, anyway, it was her body. Six weeks: plenty of time for a lift and maybe some little implants, too.

  Dave came up behind her and stroked her hair. He was wearing the pair of gray-striped silk pajamas she had ordered from London. He caught her eye in the mirror and smiled.

  “You look gorgeous tonight. I couldn’t wait to get you home.”

  She leaned her head against him and closed her eyes. “It was a fun party.” She rubbed her head back and forth.

  “Mmm. That feels nice.”

  “Honey, why don’t you give me a party this summer. My birthday’s coming up.”

  “Sure, baby. There’s that new restaurant that opened over the winter, we can rent the whole place.”

  “I meant a real party. At the house. You have that great big house with all that land out back, and you never give any parties.”

  “Too much work.”

  Neely could feel him starting to get hard. She leaned forward. “Too much money, you mean.”

  “It’s not about the money. Don’t stop, that feels nice. You know it isn’t about money.”

  “Then what is it about? What’s the point of having that kind of house if you never throw parties?”

  “A big party like that takes over your whole life. My ex-wife used to give one every summer, and it nearly gave her a nervous breakdown. What’s the matter with going to a restaurant? What’s the difference?”

  “It’s different, that’s all. Everyone knows it’s different.” Neely knew exactly the kind of party she wanted and what kind of people would be on the guest list. “You don’t have to do any work, you can hire these people who do everything for you.”

  “It’s too late anyway, all the weekend nights are pretty much booked.”

  Neely leaned back again. “There might be a Saturday night in August that’s still open.”

  “Mmmm. Okay, I’ll think about it.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  She turned around and loosened the drawstring of his pajamas. “Are you thinking about it right now?”

  “I’m thinking about it right now.”

  “You keep on thinking about it, then. Don’t stop thinking about it.”

  She took the tip of him in her mouth and swirled her tongue around him three times. She began to work the length of him, her tongue flicking from side to side, her fingers circling the base of him.

  He was all the way hard now. She took him out of her mouth and gave him a squeeze.

  “Don’t stop now,” he said.

  “Oh baby,” she said, teasing him with her fingers. “Don’t I always give you everything you want?” She began again, sucking harder, waiting for the low moans that meant he was about to come. Her tongue was everywhere, her fingers, too; it had been months since she’d blown him this way, since she’d let him come in her mouth.

  He was moments away from it. She stopped again and held him against her cheek.

  “Not yet,” she said. “Not just yet.”

  “You’re killing me.”

  “How bad do you want it?”

  “As bad as it gets.”

  “And what would you do for it?”

  “Anything you want. Anything.”

  She began again, first slowly, then quicker, then slowly again, and when his moaning started she pressed two fingers hard into him, all the way in the back, and she did not stop, and he realized now that she would not stop, that she was all his, that everything was his. He watched himself come, her lipstick all smeared, watched her inhale, exhale, swallow, inhale again.

  Afterward, in bed, he pulled at the edge of her nightgown.

  “You don’t have to,” she said. “Just hold me.”

  In a few minutes he was out. When he began to snore, she lifted his sleep-heavy arm from around her waist and went to the sitting room to make a cup of tea. She wasn’t tired at all. She got out the hotel stationery and began to make lists. A list of Dave’s friends, a list of her friends, a list of the people they owed invitations to, a list of the people who could help get her work.

  “Come Celebrate Neely O’Hara’s 34th Birthday!” she wrote across the top of one page.

  That didn’t look right at all.

  “Neely O’Hara Turns 34!” she tried again, but that looked even worse. Maybe the party consultant could help her with the wording. She could visualize the invitations, purple ink on heavy pink stock.

  She gave it one more try. “NEELY O’HARA HITS THE BIG THREE-OH!”

  Perfect.

  The next night, they went downtown for dinner with some of Dave’s friends. It was the kind of restaurant Neely hated: the crowd was full of television people and models, and the food was bistro French, which made it nearly impossible to stick to the highprotein, no-carbs diet she had been on for the last five weeks. But Dave loved any place that was hard to get into, and right now this was the hardest table in New York City.

  The conversation was all about deals and numbers and network gossip. Dave’s friends both worked in television, the husband in news, the wife in sports. There wasn’t anything either of them would ever be able to do for Neely, so she let her mind wander and checked out what the models were wearing.

  There, just two tables away, sat Anne Burke and a man she didn’t recognize. Neely watched them talking or, rather, watched the man talk while Anne smiled.

  “Oh, my God, she’s on a date!” Neely cried.

  “What?” said the wife.

  “Someone I used to know. Long story.”

  The wife turned and looked. “Oh, I know him.”

  “Oh yeah, who is he?” Neely asked.

  She lowered her voice and nodded slightly toward her husband. “You first.”

  “Okay. Anne Burke, but I guess she’s back to being Anne Welles now. Up until a few months ago she was Mrs. Lyon Burke. Know him at all?”

  “A little, from parties. I’ve heard the stories, of course.”

  “Yeah, well, they’re all true. Guy couldn’t keep his pants zipped if you paid him a million dollars.” The men continued their separate conversation. Neely leaned over and whispered, “And she never knew about any of it.”

  “You mean she never wanted to know.”

  “Whatever. Little Miss Priss. Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, or anywhere else, for that matter. We used to be friends, but once they moved to Fifth Avenue, if you weren’t on the social register, you were off the list.”

  “I think they say in the social register.”

  “Oh yeah? On it, in it, whatever. She dropped all her old friends like that.” Neely snapped her fingers. “They are definitely on a date.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Body language. Look how they’re both using their hands when they talk.”

  “So, did you … ever?”

  “Ever what?”

  “You know. Lyon Burke.”

  “Now that’s a personal question.”

  The wife shrugged. “Okay, my turn, I’ll go first.” She named two football players, three tennis stars, the owner of a baseball team, and a basketball coach who had just written a best-selling book on persona
l motivation.

  “Wow.”

  “Before I was married, of course.”

  “Good thing your husband can’t hear us.”

  “Are you kidding? He loves it. And he loves that people know it. He’d find a way to tell them himself if it wasn’t in such bad taste. Makes him feel like a stud. Why do you think he went out with me in the first place? Sometimes I think everything our mothers told us was wrong. If you fuck a lot of guys no one has heard of, you’re a slut. But if you fuck a lot of famous guys, you’re a prize. Okay. Your turn.”

  Neely thought a moment. Lyon Burke, but so what? A bunch of Hollywood people, some actors, some directors, some producers, but so what? What she really wanted to be able to say was, “I fucked the king of England,” or, “I fucked the president of the United States.” But there was no king of England. And there hadn’t been a fuckable president since Marilyn Monroe was alive. All these newspaper columnists whining about why nobody cared about politics anymore, when to Neely the answer was obvious: Put a good-looking man in the White House, and people would start caring again.

  She threw a few names across the table to even things up. “So, who’s the guy?” she asked.

  “His name is Bill Carter, and everyone at the network worships him because he got all his big clients out of the market before the crash. He used to be married to my friend Camille, but about five years ago he came home early and found her IFD with another woman. Nasty divorce.”

  “IFD?”

  “In flagrante delicto.”

  “He was married to a lesbian?”

  “Oh, Camille isn’t a lesbian. Camille isn’t really anything. She was just bored, you know, stuck up there in Connecticut all day, drinking margaritas by the tennis court, one thing leads to another, you know how it goes.” The woman lifted an eyebrow. Neely wondered whether this was a kind of pass. “I just had the wickedest idea.”

  “Oh yeah?” Neely said.

  “Let’s send them a bottle of wine.”

  Neely laughed. “You are wicked.”

  “A bottle of really expensive wine.”

  “A bottle of really expensive wine and half a dozen oysters!” Neely signaled the waiter.

  “Who shall I say it’s from?” the waiter asked.

  “Old friends,” Neely said.

  Don’t turn around,” Bill said to Anne when the wine and oysters arrived. “Just keep smiling and keep looking at me.”

  “Who is it from?” Anne asked.

  “A friend of my ex-wife’s. I’m so sorry about this. It was one of those divorces where everyone had to take sides.”

  “Is there any other kind? At least it’s a very nice wine.”

  “I’m going to send it back.”

  “Don’t give her the satisfaction. You know that whatever you do, she’s just going to run home and tell your ex about it.”

  “In that case, let’s pour the wine and have a toast. And you have to promise me you’ll look into my eyes longingly the whole time. If we’re going to give her a story, let’s give her a really good story.”

  They fake-flirted throughout dinner, touching each other as they talked. Bill told her about growing up in Greenwich, about his three children, all in college now, and his work at the bank. Anne talked about Jenn and life in Southampton. Though Bill was ten years older, and had gone to Yale, they knew a few people in common. A partner of Bill’s who lived in Anne’s old building. Bill’s younger brother, an architect who lived in Bridgehampton. A friend of Anne’s from college, who had married and moved to Greenwich. Suitable was the word Anne kept thinking of, entirely suitable. He was exactly the kind of man she had been bred to marry: loyal, responsible, conservative, good-looking in a sturdy sort of way, and not the least bit exciting.

  They both drank more than they had planned to. Bill called for the check. “How are you getting home?” he asked. “It’s too late to drive back.”

  “I do it all the time,” Anne lied. Her car was parked in a cheap outdoor lot on the far side of the West Side Highway. She prayed the engine would start.

  “That’s crazy. I’ve got a car coming. The driver can drop me off at my hotel, and then he can take you out to Southampton.”

  Anne tried to calculate what this would cost.

  “It’s a company car, I’ve got to pay him for the whole night whether he takes you home or not. Please.”

  She was about to say yes when she saw Neely approach. Thin again, thought Anne. The clothes were a surprise: in a scoop-neck black T-shirt, well-cut black trousers, and black boots, Neely looked nearly elegant. There was still a little too much jewelry (bracelets on both wrists, and complicated earrings that did not quite work with her loose shoulder-length hair), and there was still that soft line of dark blue eye-pencil smudged into her lower lashes. But the Neely who stood before her was so different from the Neely she carried around in her memory that Anne found herself wondering whether it was really possible, how much could one person change? She’s an actress, thought Anne, and on the inside, surely the same.

  How long had it been? Years? Anne could not recall the last time they had talked.

  “Like the wine?” Neely said. She extended her hand to Bill. “Neely O’Hara. Old friend of Anne’s.”

  Bill stood up. “Bill Carter. New friend of Anne’s.”

  “You sent the wine?” Anne asked.

  “Whodja think?” Neely said.

  “It was lovely,” Anne said.

  Bill excused himself to call for the car.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Neely said, taking his seat. “So. You’re looking good.”

  “You too,” Anne said. “You look … you look happy and rested.”

  Neely laughed. “Yeah, I took a big long rest on the Isle of Collagen. Listen. I have a favor to ask.”

  “Do you.”

  “Come on. I know all about your divorce. Let’s let bygones be bygones.”

  “That’s easier said than done, Neely.”

  “Fine. You got something you want to say to me, spit it out.”

  “I don’t have anything to say to you.”

  “Really?”

  “I just wish you would go away.”

  “Well, I’m not going away. In fact, we’re both going to be in the Hamptons this summer, and we know plenty of the same people, so let’s find a way to bury the hatchet already.”

  “It’s not so easy.”

  “Why not? Who cares about Lyon anymore, anyway? You look like you’re doing all right with Bill What’s-his-name.”

  “I barely know him. We just met.” Anne was sorry as soon as she said it.

  “Oh yeah? Whaddaya know. You looked awfully cozy over those oysters. I would have guessed—” She watched Anne pull back. “Oh, never mind. I just thought, you know, why give Lyon the satisfaction? Why still act like we’re fighting over him? I mean, I can barely remember anything about him. It was so long ago, and I was wrecked the whole time. He turned out to be a big loser. He didn’t deserve you, Anne, he never did.”

  “Let’s change the subject, Neely.”

  “Okay. Never mind.”

  “So. What’s the favor.”

  “Dave’s giving me this big party in August. For my thirtieth birthday.”

  “A little late for your thirtieth birthday, don’t you think?”

  “That’s the favor. If you could just, you know, let it slide about my age.”

  “Why should I?”

  “I can help you, Anne.”

  “Help me what?”

  “Come on. You think I don’t know the score? This is a small town, I hear all the gossip, Dave has a lot of friends and boy, do they love to gossip. I know this much: You’re broke, and you can’t get any work.”

  “You can stop now, I get the point.”

  “Like I said, I can help you. I can help you big-time. And all you need to do is sort of forget the year I was born in. How hard is that?”

  “We’re not friends anymore, Neely. I don’t want to be friends wit
h you ever again.”

  “Sometimes we don’t have a choice.”

  “Meaning what, exactly.”

  “It’s just how life works. We don’t get to choose our families. And we don’t get to choose the people we love, either. Think about it. Did you really choose to fall in love with Lyon? Or did it just happen?”

  Anne swirled what was left of her wine. “It just happened.”

  “And friends are the same way. Think about who your friends are. We can choose the people we hang around with, but we can’t really choose our friends.”

  Bill was back, shaking his head. “So sorry, there was a line for the phone. The car will be around in just a few minutes.”

  Neely stood up. “Well, anyway, Anne. You think about it. And see ya in the Hamptons.” She turned to Bill. “Very nice to meet you. You don’t look like a banker.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Oh, it’s definitely a compliment. Gotta go.”

  The car was an enormous dark blue Lincoln. Inside, jazz was playing. Bill took her hand. She felt woozy from all the wine, from the oysters and the too rich sauces.

  “I want to kiss you,” Bill said. “But I’m not sure you want to kiss me.”

  “I … I don’t know what I want.”

  “Surely you don’t want to be alone.”

  “No one wants to be alone. But I haven’t been with anyone since the divorce, and, I don’t know. I’m a little bit at sea.”

  “Close your eyes.”

  He kissed her. It was a perfect kiss, but she felt nothing. Perfect evening, perfect man, perfect kiss, and inside she felt absolutely nothing.

  “I see,” he said. “Well. Look, this is the part where I say I’m going to call you, but I think I’d rather wait for you to call me.” He handed her his business card. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  They pulled up in front of his hotel. Anne had a sudden urge to follow him up to his room, to get wildly drunk and let him pull off her clothes and have the kind of messy, wild sex that she should have had in college, would have had if she hadn’t married Lyon so young. She wanted to act as if there were no consequences, act as if nothing mattered, act on impulse—in short, she wanted to act as if she were someone else entirely.