Valley of the Dolls
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Authors: Jacqueline Susann
Table of ContentsAlso by Jacqueline Susann
Every
Night, Josephine!
The Love Machine
Once Is Not Enough
Dolores
Yargo
Valley of the Dolls
a novel
Jacqueline Susann
Copyright © 1966 by Tiger, LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, or the facilitation thereof, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Any members of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or publishers who would like to obtain permission to include the work in an anthology, should send their inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 841 Broadway, New York, NY 10003.
Published simultaneously in Canada
Printed in the United States of America
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Susann, Jacqueline.
Valley of the dolls : a novel / by Jacqueline Susann.
p. cm.
ISBN-10: 0-8021-3519-6
ISBN-13: 978-0-8021-3519-3
I. Title.
S3569.U75V3 1997
813’.54—dc21 97-14268
Grove Press
an imprint of Grove/Aitlantic, Inc.
841 Broadway
New York. NY 10003
Distributed by Publishers Group West
08 09 10 25 24 23 22 21 20 19
To Josephine
who sat at my feet, positive I was writing a sequel but most of all to Irving
You’ve got to climb to the top of Mount Everest
to reach the Valley of the Dolls.
It’s a brutal climb to reach that peak,
which so few have seen.
You never knew what was really up there,
but the last thing you expected to find
was the Valley of the Dolls.
You stand there, waiting for
the rush of exhilaration
you thought you’d feel—but
it doesn’t come.
You’re too far away to hear the applause
and take your bows.
And there’s no place left to climb.
You’re alone, and
the feeling of loneliness is overpowering.
The air is so thin you can scarcely breathe.
You’ve made it—and the world says
you’re a hero.
But it was more fun at the bottom
when you started,
with nothing more than hope and
the dream of fulfillment.
All you saw was the top of that mountain—
there was no one to tell you
about the Valley of the Dolls.
But it’s different
when you reach the summit.
The elements have left you battered,
deafened, sightless—and too weary
to enjoy your victory.
Anne Welles had never meant to start the climb.
Yet, unwittingly, she took her first step
the day she looked around
and said to herself,
“This is not enough—
I want something more.”
And when she met Lyon Burke
it was too late to turn back.
Anne
September, 1945
The temperature hit ninety degrees the day she arrived. New York was steaming—an angry concrete animal caught unawares in an unseasonable hot spell. But she didn’t mind the heat or the littered midway called Times Square. She thought New York was the most exciting city in the world.
The girl at the employment agency smiled and said, “Aaah, you’re a cinch. Even with no experience. All the good secretaries are away in those big-paying defense jobs. But honest, honey, if I had your looks I’d head straight for John Powers or Conover.”
“Who are they?” Anne asked.
“They run the top modeling agencies in town. That’s what I’d love to do, only I’m too short and not skinny enough. But you’re just what they’re looking for.”
“I think I’d rather work in an office,” Anne said.
“Okay, but I think you’re crazy.” She handed Anne several slips of paper. “Here, they’re all good leads, but go to Henry Bellamy first. He’s a big theatrical attorney. His secretary just married John Walsh.” When Anne failed to react, the girl said, “Now don’t tell me you never heard of John Walsh! He’s won three Oscars and I just read he’s gonna get Garbo out of retirement and direct her comeback picture.”
Anne’s smile assured the girl she would never forget John Walsh.
“Now you get the idea of the setup and the kind of people you’ll meet,” the girl went on. “Bellamy and Bellows—a real great office. They handle all kinds of big clients. And Myrna, the girl who married John Walsh, she couldn’t touch you in the looks department. You’ll grab a live one right away.”
“A live what?”
“Guy . . . maybe even a husband.” The girl looked back at Anne’s application. “Say, where did you say you’re from? It
is
in America, isn’t it?”
Anne smiled. “Lawrenceville. It’s at the start of the Cape, about an hour from Boston by train. And if I had wanted a husband I could have stayed right there. In Lawrenceville everyone gets married as soon as they get out of school. I’d like to work for a while first.”
“And you
left
such a place? Here
everyone
is looking for a husband. Including me! Maybe you could send me to this Lawrenceville with a letter of introduction.”
“You mean you’d marry just anyone?” Anne was curious.
“Not
anyone.
Just anyone who’d give me a nice beaver coat, a part-time maid, and let me sleep till noon each day. The fellows I know not only expect me to keep my job, but at the same time I should look like Carole Landis in a negligee while I whip up a few gourmet dishes.” When Anne laughed the girl said, “All right, you’ll see. Wait till you get involved with some of the Romeos in this town. I bet you rush for the fastest train back to Lawrenceville. And on the way, don’t forget to stop by and take me with you.”
She would
never
go back to Lawrenceville! She hadn’t just left Lawrenceville—she had escaped. Escaped from marriage to some solid Lawrenceville boy, from the solid, orderly life of Lawrenceville. The same orderly life her mother had lived. And her mother’s mother. In the same orderly kind of a house. A house that a good New England family had lived in generation after generation, its inhabitants smothered with orderly, unused emotions, emotions stifled beneath the creaky iron armor called “manners.”
(“Anne, a lady never laughs out loud.” “Anne, a lady
never
sheds tears in public.” “But this isn’t public, I’m crying to you, Mama, here in the kitchen.” “But a lady sheds tears in privacy. You’re not a child, Anne, you’re twelve, and Aunt Amy is here in the kitchen. Now go to your room.”)
And somehow Lawrenceville had pursued her to Radcliffe. Oh, there were girls who laughed and shed tears and gossiped and enjoyed the “highs” and “lows” of life. But they never invited her into their world. It was as if she wore a large sign that said,
Stay Away. Cold, Reserved New England Type.
More and more she retreated into books, and even there she found a pattern repeated: it seemed that virtually every writer she encountered had fled the city of his birth. Hemingway alternated between Europe, Cuba and Bimini. Poor bewildered, talented Fitzgerald had also lived abroad. And even the red, lumpy-looking Sinclair Lewis had found romance and excitement in Europe.
She would escape from Lawrenceville! It was as simple as that. She made the decision in her senior year at college and announced it to her mother and Aunt Amy during her Easter vacation.
“Mama . . . Aunt Amy . . . when I finish college I’m going to New York.”
“That’s a dreadful place for a vacation.”
“I intend to live there.”
“Have you discussed this with Willie Henderson?”
“No. Why should I?”
“Well, you’ve kept company since you both were sixteen. Everybody naturally assumes . . .”
“That’s just it. In Lawrenceville
everything
is assumed.”
“Anne, you are raising your voice,” her mother said calmly. “Willie Henderson is a fine boy. I went to school with his daddy and his mother.”
“But I don’t love him, Mama.”
“No man can be loved.” This from Aunt Amy.
“Didn’t you love Daddy, Mama?” It wasn’t a question. It was almost an accusation.
“Of course I loved him.” Her mother’s voice bristled. “But what Aunt Amy means is . . . well. . . men are different. They don’t think or react like women. Now take your father. He was an extremely difficult man to understand. He was impulsive, and he enjoyed his drink. If he had been married to anyone but me he might have had a bad end.”
“I never saw Daddy drink,” Anne said defensively.
“Of course not. There was Prohibition, and I never kept a drop in the house. I broke him of the habit before it could take hold. Oh, he had a lot of wild ways in the beginning—his grandmother was French, you know.”
“Latins are always a little crazy,” Aunt Amy agreed.
“There was nothing crazy about Daddy!” Suddenly Anne wished she had known him better. It seemed so long ago . . . the day he had reeled forward, right here in the kitchen. She had been twelve. He never said a word, just slumped quietly to the floor and quietly died, before the doctor even reached the house.
“You’re right, Anne. There was nothing crazy about your father. He was a man, but he was a good man. Don’t forget, Amy, his mother was a Bannister. Ellie Bannister went all through school with our mama.”
“But Mama, didn’t you ever
really
love Daddy? I mean, when a man you love takes you in his arms and kisses you, it should be wonderful, shouldn’t it? Wasn’t it ever wonderful with Daddy?”
