Jacqueline Susann's Shadow of the Dolls (34 page)

Sonia called to her. “Gretchen, you naughty girl, you know it is past your bedtime.”

“Let her come in,” one of the men said.

“No,” Sonia insisted. “Gretchen, be a good girl, go back to bed.”

Gretchen ran back to her room. Images of what she had seen raced through her head—Harry with the young actress … a
woman sandwiched between two men … Sonia, naked from the waist up, her long breasts falling against the pillow … All this time, and she had never guessed.

The next day, Sonia and Harry behaved as usual, neither one mentioning the night before. That Thursday there was an extra sixty dollars in her envelope. This time she knew it was not a mistake.

Sonia came to visit her late the following Monday. “Gretchen,” she said, “tomorrow is Tuesday. I don’t want you to be upset with us. Harry and I, we love you, we love having you here. What happens downstairs, you don’t have to think about it.”

But Gretchen couldn’t stop thinking about it.

“I can’t explain it, really,” Sonia said. “It’s just that, you get to a certain point in your life, and you realize life is so short, and you discover what you want, and then you begin thinking it’s not so bad to have it. What we do, no one gets hurt. Everyone knows the rules. Harry and I, we used to watch these movies. You know the kind of movies I mean. And then one day we realized, it doesn’t just have to be a movie. We were in Mexico, Harry had just gone for a nice long massage, and when he got back to the room I told him I had a birthday present for him. I had hired a girl. Someone from the hotel. At first I thought maybe Harry would just watch, I knew he always wanted to watch me with another woman, but eventually all three of us were together. And … and we just kept going from there.”

“How do you find them,” Gretchen asked. “The other people.”

“Some are old friends. Others … well, it’s Los Angeles. No one is shy. You know, when we first saw you in the airport, we thought … well, you can guess what we thought. But then you turned out to be a nice old-fashioned girl.”

Gretchen wanted to ask another question, but Sonia shook her head. “It’s best not to be too curious.”

The next Tuesday, Gretchen poured herself a big glass of wine and went to bed early, hoping to sleep through everything. She woke up at midnight, wide awake. She wondered whether it was time to go back to New York. She had been saving her money, she had enough to live on for a few months. She could go back to being a waitress or maybe get a secretarial job. But she didn’t want to go back … to live in some awful little apartment in Brooklyn … to give up all of this … the beautiful house, where she never had to make a bed or fold a towel. Sonia and Harry always took care of everything … Sonia and Harry loved her, they would never hurt her. She wanted to stay here forever, but Harry was almost entirely retired now; there was less work to do than at the beginning.

She put on one of the white dresses. No, that was all wrong. She went to Sonia’s closet and found a red dress … perfect … it was loose in the waist, but she could fix that with a belt. She went downstairs and opened the door. Sonia came over and placed her hands on Gretchen’s shoulders.

“Are you sure?” Sonia asked.

Gretchen shook her head.

“Don’t be afraid. Everyone knows the rules.”

And so it began. The first time it was simple; a handsome young man made love to her on the floor. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend it was almost normal, that no one was watching. The next time she was with a woman … and then with a couple. People were teaching her things, and her body was responding. No one would be hurt, everyone knew the rules. And then it wasn’t just Tuesday nights … sometimes she would sleep with Harry and Sonia. Harry liked to be tied up … he liked to watch Gretchen and Sonia. But Tuesday nights were the best … so much pleasure, how could it be wrong? And she was good at it, she had always been good at it. And every week there was two thousand dollars in her envelope. And they were always so generous … there were
presents, too … and trips to the plastic surgeon—first her nose, then the cheek and chin implants. At the doctor’s office, there were photographs of models and actresses. There was even a photograph of Anne. Gretchen went through Harry’s photography books until she found a picture of Jennifer North. Gretchen didn’t just want to be beautiful, she wanted to be achingly, heartstoppingly beautiful … the way Anne had described Jennifer … just a few more procedures.…

Gretchen told Anne about the plastic surgery but left out most of the rest of it. She told Anne just enough to leave her thinking that perhaps she’d occasionally slept with Harry.

“And one night,” she told Anne, “the most remarkable man came to dinner. He was so elegant, and he had this sexy Hungarian accent, and we ended up spending almost the entire night talking about books. Me, talking about books! I talked about all the books Sonia and Harry had given me to read, and I knew I wasn’t pronouncing all the names right, but he never made me feel stupid.” They had done other things, too, but Gretchen figured Anne could connect the dots if she wanted. “And that’s how I met Gregor.”

“So there was never any restaurant,” Anne said.

“Sure there was a restaurant.” Gretchen giggled. “But I never worked there. Harry owned a couple of places in Westwood. There was all this cash around, who knows from what, they never told and I never asked, and the restaurants made it easier. They put me on the payroll at one of them, so I wouldn’t get into trouble with my taxes. The IRS must have thought I made the best tips in Los Angeles!

“It’s really love, with Gregor,” Gretchen continued. “I think I fell in love the first night we met.” Gregor had gone to Harry, asked for Gretchen’s hand as if she were Harry’s daughter. What it felt like, to have a man know your worst secret and love you anyway. They flew to the Virgin Islands, where Gregor’s lawyers had
arranged for some kind of divorce for her. When she got back to Los Angeles she changed her name to Casey Alexander, and the lawyers took care of the rest. She had a new husband, and a new name, and a new face. She could start all over, and no one would ever know.

“I have to ask you,” Gretchen said. “How did you figure it out?”

Anne twisted her ear. “In poker, it’s called a ‘tell.’ You always twisted your ear when you were nervous.”

Gretchen smiled. “I guess I’m not such a good actress after all.”

Anne went into the city a few days later to pack up her office. Trip had begged her to wait and see what happened—she had a contract and if they fired her there would be a handsome settlement—but Anne was done with all of it.

Everything she cared about fit into a briefcase and two shoeboxes. Keith Enright tapped on her open door.

“Don’t say a word,” Anne told him, “don’t you dare say a word.”

“Oh Annie, it’s just business.”

She asked him what he was planning to do with the information about Casey’s past.

“It’ll hold,” he said. “It’s a good story.”

“You bury it,” Anne said. “You bury it so deep no one can ever find it.”

“I don’t think so. It’s too good.”

“Sit down,” Anne said. “You listen to me. If anyone at IBC ever does anything to hurt her, and I mean
anything
, I’m going to …”

“You’re going to what?” Keith said. “You’re out of here. Don’t get all dramatic on me. Once you walk out of that door, you’re nobody.”

“I’ll file a sexual harassment suit,” she said. “All these little visits of yours, I’ve kept my old appointment books, it won’t look good for you. I moved up awfully fast, didn’t I? A little too fast, that’s what a lot of people think. And you were the one who did the moving. It won’t look good for you at all.”

“That’s rich. I almost believed you there for a minute.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Come on, Anne. I never laid a finger on you.”

“Unlike plenty of other women I can name. People will believe what they want to believe. With your reputation, it will be a piece of cake.”

“You’ll never make it stick.”

“I don’t have to, Keith. I just have to make a little fuss, and the press will take it from there.”

“You wouldn’t dare. You’re bluffing. You don’t have the
cojones
,” he said.

“You’re right, I don’t. But my attorney does.” She named a law firm that had successfully sued a large petrochemical company, and she watched him wince. “You know what I’ve learned? It’s not what you’re born with. Balls are like everything else: cars, houses, people.”

He frowned, she laughed.

“Like everything else in this town,” Anne said. “They can be rented.”

T
en more minutes!” Neely cried. “Hurry up, you’ll miss the opening.”

“I’m on my way,” Lyon called down from the bedroom. At the last minute, Neely had decided she wanted to tape her interview on two VCRs, just in case.

They had ordered in sushi. Lyon used chopsticks; Neely ate with her fingers.

“You should have seen the teasers,” Neely said. “I got more buildup than the First Lady! Did you put in a fresh tape?”

“Yes, darling, I put in a fresh tape.”

“On slow?”

“Yes, darling, on slow.”

Neely was in high spirits. The night before, she had watched Anne’s interview with Casey Alexander. It was nothing but a puff piece. Nancy Bergen had told her that Casey walked out halfway through, and the producers had been left holding the bag. The overnight ratings were disastrous. Well, what did they expect, Neely thought. Casey Alexander was just a boring Valley girl, who would be interested in her story?

Lyon didn’t know that Anne wasn’t talking to her. Maybe he would never find out; it would probably all blow over in a few weeks. Neely was confident Anne would come crawling back like always. Anne had blown everything out of proportion. It was just show business. Who in her right mind would turn down a chance to be interviewed by Nancy Bergen? Nancy was a legend, a real journalist. Anne was in over her head. She should have stuck to something she could be good at, Neely thought, like that old morning show. Or the weather.

Neely could hardly breathe during the interview.

“That was fantastic,” Lyon said afterward. “You’re a pro.”

“Really?” Neely asked. “You’re not just saying that.”

“You really have no idea?” he said.

“I dunno. I think I looked kind of fat.”

“You looked beautiful,” he said.

The next day the papers confirmed it: the ratings were tremendous, and even the nastiest television critics thought Neely had handled herself exceptionally well. There were a few comments about her appearance, but Neely shrugged them off. She had lost a lot of weight quickly, and everyone knew that after a certain age your skin didn’t bounce back the way it used to. She was forty-three years old, what did they expect! Exercise could do only so much, not that she exercised very much anymore. It was hard to find the energy.

The doctors had told her that might be one of the side effects. They had warned her about the other side effects, too. Loss of libido. She just wasn’t that interested anymore. Sometimes Lyon rented a dirty movie, and they watched it together, Lyon waiting to see if it put her in the mood. About half the time it did. But it didn’t feel the same. It was harder to come, and then when she finally did, sometimes it was as small as a sneeze. She tried to make a lot of noise so Lyon wouldn’t miss it.

Anyway, soon she’d be as good as new. If she kept her weight stable for another eight weeks, she’d be ready for another face lift. And this time she needed a tummy tuck, too. She had been to the doctor, and he’d marked her up with a big purple pen, drawing arrows on all the places that could stand a procedure. She needed to replace her implants and do something about her legs. There were all kinds of new stuff now. They could even hypnotize you so you didn’t need painkillers afterward. Why be depressed about what was wrong? With the right doctors, anything could be fixed.

1999.

T
hey would be married the third week of August. Anne and Bill had decided on a small civil ceremony: just a few friends and family in the backyard, with dinner and dancing afterward at the club. In May Anne went to Southampton by herself for a few weeks. “I want you to miss me a little before the wedding,” she told Bill. And she wanted to see her lilacs bloom one last time. She planned to put the house on the market when the season was over.

She met Terry Abernathy at a party the Dunbars gave on Memorial Day weekend. He didn’t look at all like his pictures.

“He’s handsomer, isn’t he,” Sandy whispered to her in the kitchen. Abernathy had started the cable company that had swallowed up IBC and was now making a run at one of the Hollywood studios. Anne supposed that in some sense he was now Keith Enright’s boss. She rarely watched television anymore, except for the occasional special that Charles Brady hosted. Charlie still took her to lunch every few months, telling her she was too young to
retire, she’d go crazy if she didn’t start working again. But she didn’t miss it. In the fall she would take the train down to the city twice a week, to teach a class in broadcast journalism at Columbia.

She ran into Terry Abernathy a few weeks later, in a bookstore on Main Street.

“Anne Welles,” he said. “What have you got.” He took the book from her hand. “Haven’t heard of it.”

“It isn’t out yet,” she said. “It’s an advance copy, they’re just letting me borrow it.”

He read the copy on the back. “Sounds depressing. You aren’t depressed, are you?”

“Definitely not,” she said. “Are you?”

“I was until I ran into you. Walk with me. I need to pick up a house present for these people I’m staying with. I could use your help.”

She had no place to be. They went down the street and settled on an antique tea set. He asked her to dinner.

She wiggled her finger. “You know I’m getting married in about two minutes.”

“It’s just dinner. I’ll have you home by nine.”

Anne knew she shouldn’t go, but how often did one get invited to dinner by someone like Terry Abernathy? He was so different from the men she knew in the Hamptons. He carried himself with a confidence that didn’t come from money, or power that derived from his job. His confidence was different: she imagined he had always had it, even as a child. He seemed to say whatever was on his mind, without caring what anyone thought. She had spent the last year almost entirely in Connecticut, living with Bill, going out with his friends. A year of dinners with Mary and Jim, Diana and Dickie. A year of parties at the club. A year of salads at lunch, girl talk with Gretchen and Stella. That would be her whole world soon enough.