Shadow of the Dolls

by Jacqueline Susann

  “Oh, here, it’s faster if you just rinse it,” Sandy said, taking the pepper pieces back. “Could you grab a stick of butter from the refrigerator?”

  There appeared to be two refrigerators. Neely chose the closest one and was relieved to find a box of butter sitting on the second shelf. On the top shelf were large bowls of various kinds of fish cut up into pieces, and shellfish cleaned and ready to go. There was also a bowl of chopped garlic and a bowl of diced onions. Everything that might have left a smell on Sandy’s freshly manicured fingers had been taken care of earlier in the day by the cook.

  Dinner was the usual mix of industry gossip and political disagreements, though Neely never understood what they were arguing about, since they were all Democrats and always supported the same candidates. All the men wore rumpled chinos: George, Dave, Terry, and Brian. Terry was a character actor who had made his mark in the New York theater before moving out to California. Brian was a partner at the agency that represented Neely. Their three wives looked so alike, they might have been sisters. Same shoulder-length blond hair, streaked with foils, with bangs and layers in front cut to look as if they were growing out. Same pinkish-brown lipstick. Same noses. Neely guessed none of them had been born with that nose. The only woman she had ever met who had that nose naturally was Anne Welles.

  After dinner they put on another layer and went out to the deck for coffee, dessert, and Dave’s fabulous cheese. The moon was up, and Ella Fitzgerald was playing.

  “Neely, let’s go for a walk down by the pond,” George said when the coffee refills came around.

  Neely looked at Dave, who leaned back and nodded. “Sure, okay,” she said.

  They walked down to the dock. George was telling her about his new movie. They were going to be shooting in Australia starting in October.

  “So, how’s your movie business going?” he asked.

  “Well, I’m sure you already know. It’s not going. At first I thought I was just getting all the lousy scripts. Now I’m beginning to think there’s nothing out there but lousy scripts.”

  “You turned down the Helen Lawson story.”

  “You bet I did. I’m not going to take a bad part just for the sake of taking a part. I haven’t made a movie in, in how many years?—it feels like a million years. So everyone is watching, you know? They ought to just call it Helen Dearest. I knew her, and she was the meanest woman alive.”

  “You know we bought the rights a couple of weeks ago.”

  “You’re gonna direct it?” Neely asked. “Really?”

  George chuckled. “No, we’ll get someone else to direct it. My production company bought it. I think there could be a great film there.”

  “Really?”

  “The early material is fantastic. Some of the best dialogue for women I’ve read in a long time.”

  “Well, they must have made it all up, because half of everything Helen ever said was a lie, and the other half was nothing but four-letter words.”

  “You really hate her.”

  “She hated me first!”

  George laughed.

  “No, I mean it!” Neely said. “First she tried to ruin my career, then she tried to take credit for discovering me. She was the worst backstabbing cunt I ever met.”

  “Well, that’s not how we’re making the picture. Helen is incredibly sympathetic. She gives up everything to make it on Broadway, only to learn that she’s trusted the wrong people all along the way. Think All About Eve, with musical numbers.”

  “But that’s bullshit! That isn’t how it was at all.”

  “It’s the movies, Neely. How it was is whatever we decide to show the audience. Ten years from now, do you think anyone will remember the real Helen Lawson? All they’ll remember is this movie. And this movie has a great part for you in it. You could win an Oscar for this role.”

  “Come on.”

  “It could be your Coal Miner’s Daughter. Your The Rose. The sound track alone could make you a fortune.”

  “Geez, George. You’re quite the salesman. But I’d rather wait for a good dramatic part.”

  “I think that might be an awfully long wait.”

  “And what does that mean?” she asked.

  “You know how many thirty-plus actresses are out there competing for the same parts? This is going to sound harsh, but I’m saying it as your friend. Actresses with better credentials than you have. Do you think you’ll get anything half a dozen of them haven’t already turned down?”

  “Well, thanks a lot.”

  “Be realistic, Neely. You’re an expensive risk.”

  “I’m not so expensive! I have my own production company now. I don’t need to get a ton of dough up front.”

  “The insurance companies don’t see it that way. Your last three pictures came in wildly over budget because of shooting delays, and in every case you were the reason for those delays.”

  “I’ve been clean for four years. Maybe I have a glass of wine now and then, but alcohol was never my problem.”

  “You know how much cast insurance costs now? Last year I shot an eighty-million-dollar picture, and four million went straight to the insurance company. No one can afford to bet on you, even if you do think you are a safe bet.”

  “Geez, if this is supposed to be a pep talk, you aren’t doing a very nice job of it.”

  “We’re willing to take a risk on you, because you’re a friend, and, to be absolutely honest, because I think you’re the only person with the voice to carry the picture. But with insurance costing what it does now, producers aren’t lining up to make another Neely O’Hara movie. I’m just telling you like it is. You can ask Brian, he’ll say the same thing.”

  “Oh, yeah, the agents, the agents. All they care about is their damn packages. They’re looking out for the director, they’re looking out for the screenwriter, they’re looking out for themselves, meanwhile who’s looking out for me?”

  “Neely, you have to think about this part. At least take a look at some of the script. Everyone is going to love Helen Lawson when this movie comes out. Every woman who has ever been betrayed by a friend, every woman who ever lost a man to another woman, every woman who ever dreamed of a glamorous life, every woman over the age of thirty who wonders whether she’s made the right choices, they’re all going to watch this movie and say, That’s me! Those are my mistakes! Those are my dreams!”

  “Enough already. I’ll think about it.”

  “We really want you to do this.”

  “We?”

  “Me and Dave. We’ve talked about it.”

  “You talk about me with Dave behind my back?” Neely said, her voice growing louder.

  “Dave and I are old friends. I talk about Sandy, he talks about you, what do you think we talk about?”

  “You’re ganging up on me. I can’t believe you’re ganging up on me! It isn’t fair!”

  “We just want what’s best for you.”

  “And what’s best for your production company.”

  “Maybe it’s the same thing.”

  “Man oh man. I can’t believe Dave is doing this to me.”

  “Neely, sit down.” They sat facing each other on the long wooden bench that lined the dock. “I’m only going to say this once. Promise me you’ll listen without interrupting. Promise me you’ll listen with an open mind.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “You have one of the great voices of the century. You have an amazing talent, a gift from God, really, a talent that you’ve nearly destroyed more than once. But you’re still here. You can still sing, and you’re still beautiful.”

  He took her hand and continued. “In some ways, you and Helen are very much alike. Don’t make that face, just listen. Because deep down, Helen knew she was alone, and she knew the only thing she could really trust in life was her own talent. And deep down, I think you’re the same way.”

  Neely could feel the tears welling up. “I do feel alone a lot of the time,” she whispered.

 
“You’ve had a hard life, Neely.” He handed her his handkerchief.

  “I’ve tried, George. I’m still trying. I’m just not like other people.”

  “You’re special, Neely. You’ll never be like other people. Forget Helen Lawson. This movie is your chance to show everyone who you are.”

  They sat together in silence, listening to the waves lap against the rowboats.

  “All right,” Neely said. “All right, then.”

  George patted her knee and gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. “I’m going back up now. You sit here a little bit, I know you have a lot to think about. Everyone loves you, Neely, just remember everyone loves you.”

  He walked back up to the house, turning and waving to her just before the path curved and she fell out of sight.

  He was exhausted. He wondered how Dave did it, day after day, he wondered what it was like to love a monster like Neely. Whoever ended up directing the picture would age five years in five months. Some days he wished there were a way to make movies without actors. They were all children: needy, vain, insecure, willful little monsters.

  But oh, that voice. George Dunbar knew they needed that voice. When he got back up to the deck, he gave Brian a wink, and Brian slipped away to make a telephone call. The first draft of the papers would be drawn up by the time the West Coast offices opened on Monday morning. Neely would not have time to change her mind. They would make the picture, and if Neely didn’t fall apart, she might even get an Oscar nomination. And once she was back on top, Dave would be history. George knew that much about actresses: Women with hit pictures always traded up. He would make sure the set was full of attractive men who liked to flirt.

  Everyone would win. Neely would get her movie. Dunbar’s production company would get the profits. Dave would get his life back, and Sandy (who couldn’t stand Neely, who had told George more than once that East Hampton wasn’t as much fun now that Neely was around) would start fixing Dave up with some of her divorced friends.

  When Neely came back, Sandy brought out a bottle of their good Cognac and began to pour. A wind had come up from the water, and it was almost too chilly to sit outside.

  “To friendship,” George said, sounding a little weary, lifting his glass to toast.

  “And to the director,” Brian added, clinking his glass to George’s.

  “To the director,” said Dave.

  “To the director,” murmured the other guests.

  “To the director,” Neely said, last of all, her clear voice not the least bit tired.

  You have to come over,” Neely was saying to Anne on the telephone. “Summer is almost over and I haven’t seen you in a year! Except on television, of course.”

  “Let me call you back in ten minutes,” Anne said. Gretchen and Jenn were out on the porch, flipping through fashion magazines. It was eleven in the morning, and already hot, and no one had the energy to go to the beach.

  “Don’t play so hard to get,” Neely said. “I did get you that job, after all.”

  So Anne packed up their swimsuits and now here she was, sitting with Neely on the deck, picking at her lobster salad. In the pool below, Jenn and Gretchen were practicing their dives. Judd sat at the edge of the pool, reading a science-fiction novel. Dylan was stretched out on a chaise, listening to music through headphones, his eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses.

  Neely could not stop talking about Helen Lawson. She had brought out a stack of photocopied clippings and nightclub photographs.

  “You know what I can’t get over?” Neely said. “She seemed so old when I first met her, all used up. But you know what? She was only in her forties. Pretty much the same age as Barbra Streisand is now. Hardly ancient. But enough about her. What’s going on with you?”

  “Starting in September they’re going to tape the show in New York, so we’re moving back to the city,” Anne said. She had found them a place to live for well below market prices—a friend of Jerry’s had a loft in Tribeca filled with expensive paintings and was looking for someone to half sublet, half housesit while he spent the year in Italy. It was a huge space, with room for Gretchen, who planned to get a job bartending “so I can see movie stars all year round.” Jenn’s old school had agreed to take her back on scholarship.

  “You’re going to rent out the house?” Neely asked.

  “No, we’ll come up on weekends. I don’t want Jenn to lose contact with her Southampton friends, in case this show doesn’t work out.” With the move coming up, Anne had tried to talk Gretchen into filing for divorce, but Gretchen was too afraid of what her husband would do. Three times in the last few months he had come banging on Anne’s door in the middle of the night, drunk and cursing, threatening to set the house on fire if Gretchen didn’t come home with him. Anne had called the police each time.

  “That Gretchen has quite the body,” Neely said. Judd usually spent all day working on his computer, and Dylan practically lived at the beach, but today they were glued to the pool. Gretchen was wearing a shiny turquoise string bikini. It slipped a little with every dive. Through the clear water, the boys could watch her pull her suit back into place. “She should do something about that nose, though. And those teeth.”

  “She can’t even afford to go to the dentist,” Anne said.

  “Yeah, I guess I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have no money.”

  Anne sighed. “I haven’t.”

  “Come on, Lyon’s taking care of things, isn’t he?”

  “He takes care of Jenn. I’m on my own, pretty much.”

  “But you have your own show!”

  “It’s cable, Neely.”

  “You should ask Lyon for more money.”

  “I’m not asking him for anything.”

  “You know, he’s doing really well now. He’s making a ton of dough since he joined that new agency. Los Angeles agrees with him.”

  Anne didn’t want to ask Neely about Lyon. They hardly ever spoke anymore; now it was all just about flight arrangements for Jenn and an occasional phone call when his check was late.

  “Don’t pretend you aren’t curious,” Neely said.

  “I’m a little curious, I admit it. Do you—do you ever see him?”

  “Nah, Dave and I have run into him in restaurants a couple of times, but that’s it. He’s with a different woman every time. But I guess I’ll start seeing more of him.”

  “Really,” said Anne.

  “He’s buying a house in my neighborhood. Can you believe it? It’s a tiny house, but he gets the swanky address. So, you know, it wouldn’t kill him if you hit him up for a little more cash.”

  “I don’t want his money.”

  “All right, all right. Enough about Lyon. Look over there.”

  Jenn was sitting at Dylan’s feet, wearing his headphones, bopping her head along to the music.

  Neely giggled. “I think she has a little crush on him.”

  “She’s only eleven,” Anne said.

  “Maybe you forgot what it’s like to be eleven. You know, I’m in my thirties and I still get crushes. It’s ridiculous! You know who I have a crush on right now?”

  “I give up.”

  “Harrison Ford! Is that crazy or what? I’ve never even met him. But that doesn’t stop me from thinking about him. Sometimes, in the kip with Dave, if things are slow getting started, I just close my eyes and pretend I’m in bed with Harrison Ford. I gotta tell you, wow, it really works for me.”

  Anne laughed. “I don’t think I want to hear this!”

  “Who do you think about?” Neely asked.

  “I don’t think about anyone,” Anne said.

  “I didn’t think so,” Neely said. “You know what you need? You need to get laid. You’re turning into a big grouch. Women are just like men that way. How long has it been?”

  “Let’s change the subject.”

  “You know what they say. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”

  “It would have to be the other way around,�
� Anne said. “We’re the geese, the men are the ganders.”

  “Whatever. The point is, you need a little gander action. Don’t you ever feel a little frisky? I know I’m feeling a little frisky.”

  “But you have Dave.”

  Neely stood up and slapped her stomach. “Look at this. Totally flat. I’m in the best shape I’ve ever been in since I was a teenager. It doesn’t have anything to do with Dave. I’m just in the mood for a little fun, that’s all.”

  “Do you … do you have … an arrangement?”

  “We’re not married,” Neely said.

  “But still.”

  She wiggled her left ring finger. “If he wants me to act like a wife, he’s gonna have to cough up the paperwork. Anyway, Dave’s in California for another five days. I’m going to a party tonight, why don’t you come?”

  “I can’t.”

  “You mean you don’t want to.”

  “Okay, I don’t want to.”

  “You didn’t even ask me what kind of party it was.”

  “It doesn’t matter, I don’t feel like going out,” Anne said.

  But Neely went on. She had not forgotten how to talk Anne into things, and anyway, wasn’t this in Anne’s best interests? It wasn’t natural, the way Anne kept herself cooped up, still licking her wounds after the divorce. And it was only her first divorce!

  Anne took another sip of her gin and tonic and watched her eleven-year-old daughter attempt to flirt with a sixteen-year-old boy. He’s stoned, she thought, he is so obviously stoned. She watched Neely’s sons toss a beach ball back and forth over Gretchen’s head; she watched Gretchen jump up, laughing, her wet breasts bobbing in the thin blue suit; she watched Dylan throw the ball at Jenn, hitting her on the back; she watched Jenn shriek with delight and strike a pose of fake anger, one hand on a nonexistent hip.

  “You won’t have to dress up, it’s not that kind of party,” Neely was saying. “The car will come at eight.”

  Anne sat in the back of the dark blue town car, rubbing a bug bite on her left ankle. She was wearing the clothes that Jenn and Gretchen had picked out for her: a well-worn pair of Levi’s 501s, a white ribbed tank top, a red cotton cardigan cut like a sweatshirt, red espadrilles. The jeans were beginning to fray at the knees, and when she lifted her arms her bra straps peeked out from beneath the tank top, but Jenn had insisted this was proper party attire. Gretchen had fluffed up Anne’s hair with a blow dryer and lent her a pair of big silver hoop earrings.