Sadly her Nirvana didn’t last, and her new agent greeted her with bad news.
“Nobody will touch you for a movie or play. I can possibly get you some voice-over work. Surprisingly enough it pays very well.“
Val still had a beautiful speaking voice and was still a great mimic, able to copy most accents after only hearing them a couple of times. Her biggest problem was being reliable. She had developed an honest fear of crowds after that night at The Factory. In New York, where space is the most expensive, coveted commodity, it was now hard for her to simply go across town alone. By the time she arrived for a voice-over session, she needed time to calm down, and then more time for her greenies to get her up. She was back on her yellow and green combo. It was practically harmless after all, compared to all the other shit she’d taken.
In a business where time is money, her behavior didn’t go over very well. The agency guys loved her, but the studio guys were losing money. Her new career was starting to dry up before it took off. At home, she and her mother hardly spoke. Val’s first paycheck from a voice-over was thirty thousand dollars, and she handed it over to her mother, who had been keeping a tab on expenses incurred during, “those trying times.” Val got three hundred dollars a week for her cabs and trivial expenses.
Joe still came by and tried to cheer her up, and he did manage to get her to go to a movie occasionally. There was a film noir festival in the Village; he wanted to see a couple of the classics and she decided to go with him. They had a J on the way downtown, and she’d taken her yellows. Everything was perfect.
Most of the people in the audience were decked out in vintage clothes. Val had her 1940s cocktail dress on. She’d recently discovered shopping at resale shops. It fit her budget, and besides, it was fun. A lot of ladies must have been small in the ′40s. So many of the clothes fit her to a T.
They watched The Postman Always Rings Twice and Double Indemnity. They loved both of them and sat in the theater discussing how brilliant they were. Then a trailer started for the next festival. It was a retrospective of Wilhelm Zykor’s work, the director who had done Val’s film in Rome.
Before it even sank in, there she was up on the screen, larger than life, in Nicky’s arms being kissed passionately. All the blood drained out of her. She had learnt not to show any emotion at the clinic, and just went stiff and closed her eyes. She had never seen their film together and had never seen herself on a big screen. Joe took her hand and she held on to it for dear life. When she opened her eyes, Nicky was still on the screen, standing over her body in her big death scene. She let out a sound hard to describe. It was agony.
It broke the silence in the theater and people around her giggled. Joe took her hand, pulled her out of her seat, and out on to the street.
“We need a drink. A really big, fat drink.”
“I hate him so much, Joe. It consumes me. I don’t know what to do.”
“I’m so sorry, Val. I thought it would be a fun evening.”
“It’s not your fault. It’s his!”
They stopped at a gay bar Joe knew—one where older gentlemen went. They sat quietly in a booth drinking double vodkas on the rocks.
“I’m all right now. I think I’d like to go home.”
She left a twenty on the table and started to leave. Joe caught up with her and they jumped in a cab. He just dropped her off. She’d made it plain she didn’t want to talk.