Jacqueline Susann's Shadow of the Dolls (28 page)

“Let me guess.” He closed his eyes. “This is too hard. You have to tell me.”

“I won’t,” Mary said. “Oh Anne, he’s adorable, how come we haven’t met him before?”

“Because there’s a quota on homosexuals in Litchfield County. We couldn’t come up until someone else left,” Jerry said.

“We put them on the list,” Bill said. “But it was a long wait.”

“Did you know, meat loaf is becoming very fashionable. It’s on all the menus now.”

“I would never eat meat loaf in a restaurant,” said Diana. “My mother always told me there are three rules in life. Never let anyone take your picture naked. Never eat ground meat out. And I forget the third.”

“Never forget to send a thank-you note?” offered Mary.

“Never wear white after Labor Day?” said Jim.

“I can’t remember. It’s going to make me crazy. This is good wine!”

“Never borrow money from a friend?” said Bill.

“Never wear diamonds before five?” said Anne.

“That’s it, that’s it!” cried Diana. “Though now people wear diamonds to lunch. I see the pictures in the paper.”

“Which pictures?”

“You know, in
The New York Times
on Sunday. Right before the wedding pages. Speaking of which. I could do without all these couples pictures they’ve begun running. Ugh.”

“But I love them,” Mary said. “It’s so interesting, isn’t it? How people tend to find other people who are so, you know.”

“At the same level,” Jim said.

“Exactly. At least most of the time. Sometimes one of them is really much more attractive than the other.”

“Those are the most fun to read.”

“We play a little game with those,” Jim said. “It’s called ‘find the money.’ ”

“Mother went crazy when she found out they wouldn’t settle the newspaper strike before Jim and I got married,” Mary said. “She called Mr. Sulzberger to make a complaint. Time for dessert.” The women cleared the plates. Jerry and Curtis began to stand up, but Anne shook her head.

“You know who I saw at the market?” Diana said, scraping plates into the garbage. “Casey Alexander. She was in that marvelous Vermont movie, remember? They bought the old Hilliard place. For about a zillion dollars.”

“Well, her husband can afford it,” said Mary.

“And they asked the real estate agent about joining the club. Can you imagine? Alexander isn’t his real name, you know. It’s his first name. His real name has all these C’s and Z’s and J’s in it. It’s about eighty letters long.”

“And he’s about eighty years old,” Mary said.

“She seems nice,” Anne said. The two women turned to her.

“You’ve met her?” Mary asked.

“No, but. You know. From her interviews. She seems lovely. They wanted me to interview her for the show, but apparently she doesn’t do television interviews, just print.”

“Well, I’m glad they’re fixing up the Hilliard house, because it
was such a wreck. But I hope that’s the end of it. Jim says if too many more of these Hollywood types buy property in town, we’re moving.”

“You wouldn’t really,” Diana said.

“You know how Jim is. He says they’ll run up the prices, and then it will be silly not to sell. And he says whenever these kinds of people move in, the whole town changes, and not for the better.”

“Changes how?” Anne asked.

“Oh, you know. Restaurants and all kinds of people who … well, don’t make me say it. They have plenty of places to live already. They don’t have to come here.”

“Who is ‘they’?”

“Anne, you know exactly what I mean. Just look what’s happened to Southampton! Anyway. I saw her at the market, she was wearing these big dark sunglasses and this broad-brimmed hat, as if no one would notice. She looked ridiculous. And speaking of diamonds before five.”

They got out the dessert plates and forks.

“Chocolate cheesecake!” said Diana. “My favorite. You are too naughty. I haven’t had this in ages. They always run out on the weekends.”

Anne had switched boxes when Nancy had gone to the bathroom to reapply her lipstick. “It was the last one,” she said.

“So,” Diana said. “I’m thinking of redoing the library. Do you think Jerry could give me some advice?”

“He’s an architect, not a decorator.”

“But they always have such good taste,” Diana said.

“Maybe next time.”

Dickie had brought out the brandy. They talked for another hour—about a new sports car that had just come on the market, about whether e-mail would ever replace the telephone—and then it was time to go home.

“That really was fabulous meat loaf,” Curtis said in the car. “I loved the touch of cinnamon.”

“There was cinnamon?” Bill said.

“Tons of it. The so-called secret ingredient. Isn’t that just so waspy? Thinking cinnamon is exotic. You two have such nice friends.”

“They’re not really so nice,” Anne said.

“They’re not?”

“They’re just nice to us,” Anne said. “Because they know us.”

“Isn’t that how everyone is?” Jerry asked.

“You’re nice to everyone,” Anne said to Jerry.

“You’re nice to everyone, too,” Bill said to Anne.

“I’m not always so nice,” Anne said.

“Please! You’re the Queen of Nice!” Curtis said.

“You should see me at work.”

“Oh, I doubt it.”

“I have another side.” She told them about the switched cakes.

“But that just proves it,” Bill said as they pulled into the driveway. “You had to confess. You felt guilty. That just proves how nice you are. Nancy Bergen wouldn’t have felt guilty for a second.”

Later, when they were undressing upstairs, she turned to him. “I wish I could have seen her face.”

“Ah, revenge,” Bill said, turning back the covers. “A dish best served sweet.”

The next day Anne decided to prove how nice she really was: she telephoned Casey Alexander and invited her to lunch the following weekend.

“I understand if you’re busy,” Anne said, “on such short notice. I just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

“Are you joking?” Casey said. “We’ve been here three weeks and our next-door neighbors haven’t even come by to say hello. I knew we wouldn’t exactly fit in, but I wasn’t expecting the cold-shoulder
treatment.” Her voice was breathy, and higher than Anne expected. From her over-enunciated consonants and too-correct pronunciation, Anne could tell there had been voice lessons. It was a real old-fashioned movie-star accent, a Hollywood imitation of the kind of Park Avenue glamour girl that didn’t exist anymore.

They met at a restaurant at the local inn. “This is just like that old Bing Crosby movie,” Casey said. “You know, the one where they’re singing all the time?”

“That’s pretty much all the old Bing Crosby movies,” Anne said. “
Holiday Inn
?”

“Yes! I love that movie! I can’t wait for Christmas. I hope it snows every day. I’ve been in California too many years. I miss the snow.”

“How many years was that?” Anne asked.

“A bunch,” Casey said. Anne noticed that Casey gave vague answers to specific questions: about where she had lived, and for how long. She had been a waitress, serving breakfast to an older man who came in every day with
The Wall Street Journal
. Gregor always ordered the same thing, and he always left a precise 15 percent tip. After two months he asked her out, and two months after that they were married. Casey swore she didn’t know who he really was until a week before the wedding, when the pre-nup appeared.

“I thought he was just some nice old Jewish guy,” she said. “My mother always told me they took good care of their women. He was such a gentleman, you know, and we always had a lot of laughs together, you know? I didn’t have a clue about the money! He lived in this little apartment, there were a lot of paintings, but I didn’t really get what they were. When he first told me I thought it was a big joke. Gregor loves to play jokes.” She started to giggle. “The movie thing was his idea. I went to the first few classes just to humor him, really. I thought maybe he didn’t want me hanging around the house all day. And I could guess what people were
saying behind my back, you know, rich older man trying to buy his young wife a career. But it turned out that I really enjoyed it, and then it turned out that I’m pretty good at it.” She laughed again. “Gregor says it’s the best joke of all.”

Casey was wearing a hat and a pair of large tinted glasses. People turned to look at her as they came in.

“You should hear what Gregor says about the people around here.” Casey told a story about a party they had gone to at the club. Their real estate agent had taken them before they bought the house. “The way those wives were looking at me,” she said. “I guess I danced a little too close. Gregor loves to dance. He can dance all night.” She talked about how she wanted children. “A bunch of children,” she said. “I guess I better get started quick. Do you have children?”

Anne told her about Jenn.

“Seventeen?” Casey said. “But you don’t look it.” She asked to see a picture. Anne showed her the photograph she carried in her wallet: a picture of Jenn from last Christmas, rolling a snowball between her palms.

“She’s beautiful,” Casey said. “Seventeen. Not necessarily such a fun age.”

“We had our rough patch,” Anne said. “But lately she’s been a total sweetheart.” She knocked on the wooden table. “The divorce was so hard on her.”

“And she likes Bill?”

“She calls him the Overgrown Preppy. Here,” Anne said, passing Casey a tissue.

“Look at me,” Casey said. “Wow. The power of hormones. Every month it’s like this. Even the commercials make me cry.
Especially
the commercials. But I really do want kids.”

The coffee arrived. “You remind me of a friend I used to have,” Anne said. “So much. Jennifer North?”

“Oh, yeah, people say that,” Casey said. She leaned back and adjusted her sunglasses. “I’ve seen the pictures. And there’s a drag queen in Los Angeles who makes a pretty good living out of imitating Jennifer North.”

“No, not how you look, though I can see the resemblance. I mean, wanting kids so much. That’s all she ever talked about.” Anne took a sip. “Too hot. Anyway. I probably shouldn’t say this, we’ve just met, but I’ll say it anyway. Don’t wait too long. Don’t listen to what people say about your career. If you want a family, have a family.”

“But you stopped after one.”

“Long story.”

“Maybe with Bill. Plenty of women have kids at forty-two now.”

Anne shook her head. “One is enough.”

Y
ou have to get me more,” Neely said. “You promised me there would be more.” She was up to her shoulders in ginger-scented bubbles, wearing a small black headset. The bathroom was her favorite room in the Malibu house; after the fire she had rebuilt it at twice its original size, annexing a small guest bedroom. The door opened onto a sitting area with two divans, track lighting, and shelving filled with aromatherapy candles. One step up was a marble sink and a five-foot-square shower stall with eight heads set at various heights. Across from the shower was Neely’s vanity; the maid came in every morning to clean her makeup brushes with a special imported soap and to make sure all her cosmetics were arranged by color. Two steps up from that was an enormous bathtub set against a picture window that faced into the canyon. The window was made of chemically coated glass—Neely could see out, but no one could see in—and up above was a skylight of rosetinted glass. Lyon thought the bathroom was slightly ridiculous
and never used it. His own bathroom was spartan by comparison, the only extravagance being a heated towel rack that he rarely turned on.

Six tiny stereo speakers were hung high on the walls, the two-hundred-disk CD changer controlled by a waterproof remote. A mural of vines and flowers was painted across the walls, and the floor was tiled in warm terra-cotta. A feng shui expert had been brought in to make some last-minute additions: a pair of potted palms, a few extra mirrors to circulate the chi, and a painting of two goldfish, for harmony and luck.

“That’s all you can give me? You gotta be joking,” Neely said. Her voice turned from vinegar to honey. “I know it’s hard right now.… But sweetie, I don’t want to call anyone else, you’re the only one I trust.… No, not the yellow ones, they make my tummy rumble, just the white ones.… You’re the best.…” She looked up from her bath. There was Jenn, standing in the doorway. “Sweetie, I gotta go,” Neely whispered into the headset. “No, don’t call me back. I’ll call you back.”

Jenn just stood there and stared.

“How long have you been there, honey,” Neely asked.

“Long enough.”

“Did you come for some makeup? You can take whatever you want. You know, you should really knock first. I could have been sitting on the pot.”

“I know what you’re doing.”

“I’m just taking a bath, honey. You know how stiff my back gets. There’s nothing like a nice long, hot bath to relax the muscles.” Neely pushed a pile of bubbles over her breasts. “I have some great new ginger bath foam, if you want to try some. You look tense.”

“I know what I heard.”

“What, just now? That was the caterer, I was ordering some stuff for this party I’m giving.”

“What party.”

“It’s a surprise. For your father. A dinner party, won’t that be nice?”

“I’m not stupid. I know what’s going on. You’re high.”

“I am so
not
high. This is pain medication, honey. I need it for my back.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your back.”

“You sound just like your father. And my stupid doctors. What do they know? Not everything shows up on those machines.”

“I know what I heard.”

“Oh all right,” Neely said. “So what. It’s none of your business. I wouldn’t expect a kid to understand. You think it’s so easy, what I do? You have no idea how much pressure I’m under. How much everything costs. Who do you think is bringing in all the money around here?”

“My father makes good money.”

“Your father makes
good
money, but he doesn’t make
real
money. Pass me a towel, will ya? … Thanks. I have a right to privacy, you know. It’s in the Constitution. Are you going to run to your daddy now? Like a little girl? I bet you can’t wait to tell him. You know what you are? You’re a user. You just used me, used my connections for your little modeling career. You don’t really like me, you never did. I wasn’t fooled. Don’t think you can fool Neely O’Hara. You’re using me to get close to Dylan, too. You think I haven’t figured that out? Go on, you go tell Lyon whatever you want. There’s plenty I could tell him, too.”