Jacqueline Susann's Shadow of the Dolls (32 page)

“Then why give her the satisfaction. The columns will be all over this, Neely.”

“Well, it’s too late now, I canceled the hair guy.”

“The concierge can find us someone.”

Anne called downstairs. Neely still hadn’t decided what she was going to wear. Three designers had sent over clothing, hoping for some free publicity. Neely tried the outfits on one by one, turning slowly in front of the mirror.

“Size twelve, can you believe it?” she said. “You could land a plane on my ass.” She chose a navy-blue sleeveless dress with a long matching jacket. An hour later a hairdresser and manicurist from a neighborhood salon arrived and went to work. Anne helped her
with her makeup, blending a large dollop of bronzer into her foundation so Neely wouldn’t look so pale.

“There. You look fabulous,” Anne said.

At six o’clock Neely’s little travel clock began to beep. She got a vial of Zoloft out of her bag and opened a bottle of water. “They raised me to a hundred and fifty milligrams a day,” she said. “I’ll never lose this weight. I know, I know, don’t make a face, I’m being a good girl.” She shook a small blue tablet into her palm. “Neely loves her baby dolls.”

“Just one more thing,” she said. She took out a container of glittery gold eyeshadow and scraped some out into the bottom of a coffee cup. Then she added a scoop of moisturizer and mixed them together with the rounded bottom of a makeup brush handle.

“Cleavage juice,” she said. “Trade secret.” She rubbed it onto her chest. “Wait till you see this under the lights. Who’s gonna look at my face!”

“You really shouldn’t be nervous,” said Anne. “You don’t have to talk for more than a minute.”

“It’s the reporters,” Neely said. She hadn’t talked to the press since going into rehab. “They’re like animals. And the photographers, they’re the worst. They’ll do anything. I try to avoid them, but they’re everywhere. I can’t even go shopping anymore. I’m a prisoner in my own home!”

“You know how it works. The more you avoid the press, the more they come after you.”

“You sound just like my publicist. She says if I give them a little of what they want, they’ll ease off.”

“Why don’t you listen to her, then.”

Neely shrugged. “I don’t know, I don’t feel like it, that’s all.” Her face lit up. “Hey, I could go on your show. You could come out to Malibu and interview me there.” She knew she would be safe with Anne.

Keith had been pressuring Anne to get an interview with Neely, but Anne had kept putting him off, saying Neely was still too fragile.

“It’s up to you,” Anne told Neely. “I’d love to, but I don’t want you to feel like you owe me anything.”

“Are you kidding? I owe you everything! You practically saved my life. I just need to lose another twenty pounds,” Neely said. “And I want a good slot. I don’t want to be the opening act for one of those boring tearjerker stories they’re always doing about some kid who has some horrible incurable disease.”

Which was exactly the kind of story Anne specialized in. “Are you sure,” Anne asked.

“What do you want, a note signed in blood?” Neely said. “Of course I’m sure. And you tell the guys at IBC that I want the big buildup, teasers in prime time and the whole bit.”

Anne couldn’t wait to tell Keith. There were rumors that IBC was about to be taken over by a cable consortium, the same one that had bought Anne’s old station. The news division rarely showed a profit—as the jewel in the IBC crown it wasn’t expected to—but who knew what might happen if the network were bought and new management brought in. Keith was under a great deal of stress, and it was starting to show. He had already made veiled comments about what people could expect in the next round of contract negotiations. Even Charles Brady, who had survived several management regimes, was feeling the heat. He had been threatening to retire for years, but each time his contract was up IBC sweetened the pot. “This time I’m not sure how much longer I’ll stay,” he had told Anne. “I love this network, it’s been my whole life, but I don’t want to stick around just to watch some guy from Wyoming tear it to pieces. It would break my heart.”

But Anne knew Keith would stay and fight, even if it meant making the lives of everyone who worked under him pure hell. For the
last few months he had been on her case constantly, about ratings and the kinds of stories she was bringing in.

“You should have gotten that interview,” he would yell at her, after reading about another of Nancy Bergen’s coups.

She was sick of it: Nancy this, Nancy that. Last week Anne had snapped. “If you want another Nancy Bergen, why don’t you just go out and hire the original.”

“Don’t think we haven’t tried,” Keith said. No one’s job was secure. Bill told her she should feel free to quit, he made more than enough money to support the both of them. But Trip kept telling her to hold on: she had a rich contract, and they would have to offer her an enormous package if the show were canceled.

It was time to go. Lyon would be picking Neely up in fifteen minutes. Anne was meeting Bill in the bar downstairs for a quick drink.

“You look amazing,” Bill said. Her martini was waiting.

“Oh, this tastes so good,” Anne said. Maybe it was hard for Neely to be sober, but right now it felt just as hard for Anne to be sober around Neely.

O
ver the next several weeks, Neely telephoned Anne every few days to talk about the interview.

“I’ve lost another two pounds!” Neely would shriek into the phone. “But the skin around my neck is all loose. We’re going to have to tape it up in back behind my hair. With the right lighting it won’t show. Are you gonna hire a special lighting guy? I’ve noticed sometimes the lighting is a little off, there isn’t enough fill. I know it’s probably a union thing, but I thought you’d want to know.”

And she wanted to talk about potential questions. “So you can ask me what it was like to lose custody of the twins to Ted, and then I’ll look kinda hurt and surprised, maybe I’ll tear up a little, and
then I’ll talk about what a great guy Ted is, and how sometimes a mother has to sacrifice to do what’s best for her children. They’ll eat that up. I think if I work it right, I can come off pretty sympathetic, don’t you?”

“Neely, this is journalism, not filmmaking. We can’t script everything beforehand,” said Anne.

“Why not? No one has to know. I’m only trying to make things better. Don’t you want the best interview possible?”

She loved talking about what she was going to wear. “I’m thinking a nice yellow sweater and white slacks. You know, the ‘lady of the house’ look, Malibu style. And I’ll get yellow flowers for the coffee table. We have to be sure we’re color coordinated. You can wear a gray suit. Yellow and gray look terrific together, don’t you think?”

Anne had always looked washed out in gray. “Neely,” she said, “maybe you want your publicist to handle some of these details. Isn’t that what she gets paid for?”

“She gets paid to do whatever I want. Isn’t it more fun this way?” Neely knew she could count on Anne to make her seem as sympathetic as possible. It was a great plan. She hadn’t talked to anyone about work in a long time, but she knew that the morning after the interview aired, her phone would start ringing off the hook. And the ratings would be tremendous. Anne didn’t sound nearly appreciative enough. Neely was getting a little tired of Anne pushing her around. Neely didn’t need to be baby-sat anymore. Her confidence was back. Whoever invented those little blue baby dolls ought to win a Nobel Prize, or whatever prize they gave out at the pharmaceutical companies.

Anne showed Keith Enright some of Neely’s faxes.

“A sketch,” Anne said. “Of how she thinks the furniture should be arranged, and where the cameras should be. Apparently certain camera angles are off limits.”

“Quite the prima donna,” Keith said.

“You have no idea.”

“Just keep giving her the star treatment.”

“Wait till you see the florist bills.”

“Will she be ready in time for sweeps week?” he asked.

“I can’t nail her down,” said Anne. “She says she needs to lose three more pounds before she can commit to a date.”

This went on for another six weeks. The rumors of the IBC takeover were an open secret now. Bill told Anne her stock options might double in value.

In early April, Keith dropped by Anne’s office just before five.

“Did we have a nice day?” he asked sarcastically.

“I suppose. What’s going on?” she asked.

“You haven’t heard.”

“Heard what?” she asked. She had rarely seen him so angry. Bill had told her to be prepared for anything. She wondered how long it would take her to pack up her things. There wasn’t much that was personal in her office—a few photographs of Jenn and Bill, a watercolor of the house in Southampton, an Hermès scarf that Bill had bought her in Paris, stretched and framed behind her desk.

“You know, I thought maybe I would let you read it in tomorrow’s columns like everyone else. But that would be too cruel. And I wanted to see your face when you found out. Nancy Bergen’s office has issued a press release about her upcoming interview with Neely O’Hara.”

“But that’s impossible. I talked to Neely two days ago.”

Keith handed her the fax. “Some friend,” he said.

“I don’t understand,” said Anne.

“I understand. I understand perfectly. She suckered you. She’s probably been talking to Nancy for months. She just strung you along for leverage, to get what she wanted out of another network. Wake up, Anne.” He gave her an ultimatum. Neely’s interview was
scheduled to run on Wednesday during sweeps. Anne had to find another celebrity to draw viewers to the Tuesday night show. “Or,” Keith said.

“You don’t have to spell it out. I get it.”

“This is do-or-die, Anne. We’re a publicly held company in the midst of a hostile takeover. If senior management isn’t happy with the ratings, I’ll be asked to make some tough decisions.”

“It sounds to me like you’ve already made them.”

“You have connections. I’m sure people owe you favors. Now is the time to call them in.”

“I can’t think of anyone.”

“Can’t you?”

“To compete with Neely? Perry Hayes is old news. Serena Kyle would have been perfect, but her album is tanking. What about Tommy Sutherland? George Dunbar says he’s the next Robert Redford. Or what about George?”

“George Dunbar is a lousy interview. Maybe his movies are great, but his life is boring. You know who I want.”

“I have no idea.”

“Get Casey Alexander.”

“That’s impossible and you know it. Casey doesn’t do television. She barely does any print. Even Nancy Bergen can’t get anywhere with Casey Alexander.”

“Exactly. Casey’s a pal of yours, I’m sure she’ll want to help you out.”

“I can’t ask her. It’s too awkward. She wouldn’t agree to it, and the friendship would be over.”

“Anne, let me explain something to you. There are no friendships in this business. There are just relationships. You think Nancy Bergen has friends? Maybe she still hangs out with her high school buddies from the Bronx, but I doubt it. All these people she calls friends, it’s all just business relationships. They can do
something for her, or she can do something for them. You say Casey is your friend. What does that mean? When you have a cold, does she show up with chicken soup? When you have a bad day at the office, do you call her up and unload? If you had a fight with Bill, would she invite you over to make popcorn and watch old Cary Grant movies? I didn’t think so. Think you can come through on this one?”

“I’ll try. I’ll try my best.”

He folded the fax into an airplane and sailed it over her head. “You have one more chance. Don’t blow it.”

A
nne took Casey to lunch at a small French restaurant in the East Fifties.

“Wow, this is really the hard sell,” Casey said. “You know, all these rumors about why I avoid the press, they aren’t true. I’m just shy. It’s one thing when I’ve got a script, when I’m in character and I’m reading someone else’s words. And with print interviews, the publicity people help me, they go over everything and fix it, add the big words in. Otherwise I’d just sound like a dumb blonde. I know what people say about me.”

“People don’t say anything of the sort,” Anne said.

Casey smiled. “You’re too nice. But let’s face it. I barely graduated from high school. You have to promise you won’t make me look stupid.” She passed Anne a list of approved topics prepared by her publicist. “I’m supposed to give you this.”

“It’s a news show,” said Anne. “I can’t make any guarantees.” She passed the memo back to Casey.

“I had to try,” Casey said. She could see how much pressure Anne was under. Everyone was talking about how they were about to send her back to a morning slot. She hadn’t forgotten how Anne had once reached out to her. “Oh, what the hell. Okay, I’ll do it. But you have to promise me I’ll come out smelling like a rose.”

“Of course you will,” said Anne. It was the kind of promise Charlie Brady had taught her never to make, but right now she’d say anything to land the interview.

“Promise?” Casey said.

“Promise,” said Anne.

They taped the interview at Casey’s house two weeks later. A camera crew followed the two women as Casey gave a tour of the property. Anne walked Casey through the easy questions: about her childhood in a Los Angeles suburb, about meeting her husband at the restaurant, about her screen test with Perry Hayes. Casey had been carefully coached and peppered her answers with references to books that Anne was fairly sure Casey had never read. When Anne asked her about children, Casey got tears in her eyes and gave an emotional answer about how growing up in a broken family might be holding her back. They took a lunch break while the crew set up in Casey’s living room.

Keith pulled Anne aside. “You’re doing great,” he said. “She’s nice and relaxed. The stuff about her husband’s heart condition is fantastic.”

“Of course, Gregor will probably outlive us all,” Anne said. “I’m dying for a cigarette.”

Keith took out a pack. “Let’s go for a walk, I have something I want to show you.” It was a three-page report from one of the researchers. Sections were highlighted in yellow. “Great stuff, hunh?” Keith said.