Jacqueline Susann's Shadow of the Dolls (18 page)

“Extraordinary good or extraordinary bad?” Neely asked. “Extraordinary” was like “special”—a word people used when they didn’t want to say what they thought.

“Extraordinary good, extraordinary marvelous. You’ve really captured her.”

“Yeah, I have, haven’t I.”

“You
are
Helen Lawson.”

“I am, amn’t I,” Neely said.

“Except better.”

“And better looking!” Neely said. “You want some tea or something?”

They sat on two chintz-covered armchairs, facing each other. “What is this?” Lyon asked, sipping his tea. “It tastes like vegetable broth.”

“It’s disgusting, I know, but it’s really good for you.” She waved her long red nails at the kitchenette. “No booze in here, if that’s what you’re asking.”

They chatted for a few minutes, exchanging gossip.

“Well. It was lovely to see you again,” Lyon said.

“You’re leaving?” Neely said. She had nowhere to go—Dave was in New York, the boys were at Ted’s house, and she had stopped socializing with the rest of the cast after the first week of shooting. She didn’t like to be alone at night; thinking about Helen all day left her emotionally drained and in need of distraction. But you could never really make plans to see people during a film. You never knew how late the shooting would go and what kind of shape you’d be in when the day was over. Lyon wasn’t her friend, but it wouldn’t kill him to take her to dinner. “I thought maybe we could grab a bite.”

“I’d love to, but I already have plans.”

“It’s just that I’m working on this scene, it’s the late sixties and Helen is realizing she might never have children, and I don’t know. It just isn’t working for me. Something is missing. I thought maybe you could help me out. You know, tell me some of the old stories, help fill me in. But who wants to go down memory lane, right? I
guess that wasn’t such a happy time for you.” She dipped a cotton puff in face cream and massaged it up and down her neck.

Lyon thought back to the sixties. He was in his late twenties, just arrived in New York from London to work at Henry’s agency, and the city was one nonstop party, a party where there were no rules except one: Everyone had to have a good time. Those were his glory years.

“I loved the sixties,” he said.

“Well, what would I know. I was just a kid watching it all on television.”

“We could do an early dinner in Santa Monica,” he said.

“Great, I’ll be outta here in twenty minutes. Pick me up at the gate.” She watched him leave the set.
Still not an extra ounce on him
, she thought; he still walked like a young man.

“So where is everyone!” she yelled. “Get your asses over here, get this shit off my face!” The makeup people came scurrying over. “And get out the hot rollers,” she said. “I have a date.”

Lyon took her to a restaurant where they specialized in singleserving pizzas with unusual toppings. He told her stories of his early days in New York—the clubs, the music, the clothing, the haircuts. He didn’t talk about the women, but Neely knew there had been plenty of them.

“What is it with all the goat cheese on menus these days?” Neely said. “And where did all these goats come from, all of a sudden?” She stared at her pizza: goat cheese, apples, and fresh rosemary. “I think it probably tastes better if you don’t think about what’s in it.”

When the waiter came around and asked if they would like another glass of wine, Neely nodded.

“I’m allowed,” she said. “Alcohol was never really my problem.”

Lyon smiled. “Believe me, I’m not monitoring your behavior.”

“It’s just the hard stuff, no booze, but it’s nice to have wine with dinner a couple of nights a week,” she said. “I get so wound up on
the set. I think I forgot what a grind it all can be.” She looked around the room; everyone was dressed casually, in jeans and T-shirts, but it was an A-list crowd, mostly movie people with a few television actors thrown in. Lyon always knew the hot places. They had gotten one of the best tables without a reservation. And unlike Dave, Lyon didn’t act chummy with the captain or call the waiters by name. Lyon was pure class.

She had to give him credit: he had almost lost everything, but he had managed to fight his way back to the top in just a few short years. He had kept several of his biggest clients and added some young actors who were starting to make names for themselves in smaller independent films. Neely believed that anyone with determination and nerve could make it in Hollywood—the test was whether you could pick yourself up and do it all over again after that first time you got knocked flat on your back. She had done it herself more than once. And now Lyon had done it, too.

Maybe Anne had been a little too hard on him. So he fooled around; what man didn’t? A man who didn’t fool around a little on the side probably didn’t have a very strong sex drive. And what did Anne have now? Nothing: no boyfriend, no prospects, just some overgrown preppie who called her up for a desperation fuck three times a year. Anne had made a mistake, the same one most women made: she took sex too seriously.

“I bet you were a real stud back then,” Neely said, circling the rim of her wineglass with her pinkie. “I can just picture you with long hair and a Nehru jacket.”

“And a beard!” Lyon said. “Though that didn’t last long.”

“I bet you looked great in a beard.”

“Every man should grow one once,” Lyon said.

“Sometimes I think I was born too late,” Neely said. “I missed all the fun stuff.” She did the math. How old was Lyon now? Forty-eight? Forty-nine? It wasn’t fair, how some men just got better looking with age, while women just fell apart.

“How old are you now?” Lyon said. “If I’m allowed to ask.”

“Officially?” Neely said. She knew that in this light she could easily pass for a woman in her late twenties.

“Ah,” Lyon said. “I see. Hollywood arithmetic. Well, you look extraordinary. Extraordinary good.”

The wine was making her feel warm everywhere.
Oh, what the hell
, she thought,
who really cares?
Anyone who would care was thousands of miles away. She rested her elbows on the table and cupped her face in her hands. A bit of red lace peeked out from the deep V-neck of her black T-shirt.

“And I feel extraordinary good,” she said. Lyon had deep lines in his face, but he still seemed far from fifty. That was another thing Neely knew: A man felt only as old as the woman sitting across from him. She looked at his hands, then slowly raised her eyes, to his shoulders, to his mouth, and she met his gaze and held it, neither one of them blinking for the longest time.

“You really haven’t changed one bit,” he said.

“Neither have you,” she said.

They drove home, listening to an old Miles Davis record. She sat with her legs crossed, her flowered skirt falling loosely around her knees.

“Come in for a drink?” she said when they pulled into her driveway.

“It’s late,” he said. “Maybe another time.” He offered his right hand.

She lifted his hand to her mouth and laid his fingers on her lips.

“Neely,” he said. An old ballad began to play, the soft bass carrying the melody.

“Shhhh, don’t talk.” She took the tips of his fingers between her lips and held them, softly, just the beginning of a kiss.

“Neely,” he said, his voice lower.

She closed her eyes and arched her head back. He pressed his thumb against her lips and she opened her mouth, just a little, just
enough, and he ran his thumb along her top teeth, across her tongue, and she rolled her tongue around his thumb. It all came back to her, the feel of his kisses, the smell of sandalwood and limes, the way he reached under her shirt and unfastened her bra—Lyon always liked it with some clothes left on, Lyon always liked it a little dirty—and she heard the soft purr of his seat moving back, and he pulled her on top of him, pulled her skirt up, the music had stopped, and there was nothing but the sound of their own breath and bare skin against smooth leather.

“I’ll take that drink now,” he said. The lights in the house had come on automatically with sunset; she turned them off one by one as they went upstairs.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Lyon said. They were lying in bed, facing each other, only their toes touching.

“My mind is a complete blank,” she said.
I deserve this
, she thought,
I deserve to have what I want
.

“Mine too,” he said. “An utterly happy blank.”
We deserve each other
, he thought. All the years had slipped away. He had forgotten what it was like to be with a woman who knew the worst in you and wanted you anyway.

He took a sip of the vodka, took a chunk of ice and crushed it between his back teeth.

“That doesn’t hurt?” she asked.

“I like the cold,” he said, stretching his arms in a yawn, rolling away from her. “Sweet dreams.”

I
t was the first week of November, and Anne was watching an allnews station, knitting fisherman’s caps for the people who worked on her show. It took two nights to knit each cap; by the second week of December she’d have made enough to cover Christmas presents for everyone on her list. The gray merino felt soft between her fingers. Knitting soothed her, especially this pattern, simple
ribbed rounds on five wooden needles that she had been given by her aunt Amy for her eleventh birthday. Jenn was already in bed, reading Jane Austen.

The phone rang; it was Patrick Weston. It was only seven o’clock, but Anne was already in sweatpants and home for the night.

“So how have you been,” he said.

“Busy. I can’t believe Christmas is less than two months away.”

“I read about you in the papers. Congratulations, it sounds like everything is going great.”

“And you?” Anne asked.

“Same old same old. Listen, I have an enormous favor to ask.”

“Really.”

“An insanely enormous favor.”

“Uh-oh, this doesn’t sound good.”

“I have a wedding to go to this Saturday, in Bedford, and I need a date. What do I have to say to talk you into it.”

“You want me to go to a wedding with you?” Anne said. She had never met any of his friends, couldn’t even name one. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m desperate. God, I’m sorry, that came out wrong. I mean … what I meant was …”

“I know what you meant. Patrick, I don’t think this is such a good idea.”

“Come on, why not. I’m good company. I’ll have you home by twelve. It’s my cousin Nicole, it’s this huge family wedding, and I can’t go alone.”

“And you just realized this tonight.”

“Long story, let’s just say the girlfriend is now an ex-girlfriend.”

“People go to weddings all the time without dates.”

“Not in my family. And anyway, if I call them now, Nicole will have a fit, she’s already had ten nervous breakdowns about seating arrangements. I’m begging you. I’ll do anything.”

“Anything?”

“Name it.”

Anne couldn’t think of a single thing she wanted from Patrick Weston. “I’m drawing a blank. Wait a minute, I just thought of something. What are you doing on December first?”

“Whatever you say.” His voice grew flirtatious.

“Don’t get too excited. I’m moving, I could use someone to help.” She had hired professional movers, but in New York City you always needed extra people to watch the truck and help carry valuables.

“Deal,” he said. “Black tie, I’ll pick you up at three-thirty.”

“What kind of black tie?” she asked.

“It’s Bedford,” he said. “Think headbands and pearls.”

“I’ve got just the thing.”

She knitted for another hour, falling asleep in front of the television set. When she woke up the loft was dark.

“Jenn?” she said. “You sleeping?”

“I
was
sleeping.”

“It’s only nine, I wasn’t sure.”

“I have to get up early tomorrow,” Jenn said. “We have a quiz in history.”

Anne got into bed and fell asleep again, only to wake up a few hours later. She could no longer sleep through the night without help, but she hadn’t made it to the pharmacy before closing, and her prescription bottles were empty. She fell asleep for a little while, a shallow sleep filled with odd dreams, and then woke up again, the cycle repeating itself in half-hour intervals. The harder she tried to sleep, the worse it got. The blankets were twisted around her legs; the pillows felt too soft; there was a smell of fried grease coming in from the restaurant downstairs. She stared at the ceiling, full of anxious thoughts. She remembered a phone call she had forgotten to return, a credit card bill she had neglected to mail, a thank-you note it was now too late to send.

She thought about Gretchen, how Gretchen had disappeared seemingly into thin air. Lyon had called Anne to ask what he should do; they decided they would both talk to the Los Angeles police, who didn’t seem particularly interested in Gretchen’s story. Gretchen’s husband told the police that she had a history of running away—hadn’t she run off to New York without telling him?—and she’d show up sooner or later. Jenn said Gretchen had mentioned some cousins in Northern California she wanted to visit. Lyon pointed out the missing two hundred dollars.

But it didn’t feel right to Anne, the way Gretchen had simply dropped the car off at Los Angeles International Airport and vanished without a trace.
But she was practically family
, Anne had told Lyon,
and always so responsible
.

It set something off in Lyon, to hear Anne say
responsible;
it was the word she always used when she didn’t feel he was holding up his end.
You were always too trusting
, he said.

Now she thought of every horrible thing that might have happened to Gretchen. She knew it was just a chemical thing, her brain begging for the pills she was out of, but she could not make the anxious thoughts stop. By three in the morning she was a wreck. The loft was freezing; she couldn’t wait to move to a building where the landlord kept the heat on. She got two down comforters out of the closet and knocked on the divider to Jenn’s room.

“Sweetie? Are you cold?” There was no answer. Anne tiptoed in. Jenn had pulled the covers up over her head against the cold. Anne covered her with one of the comforters. She stroked Jenn’s shoulder, remembering what it was like to be young and sleep through the night without a care in the world.