Blondes
Hollywood. The name conjures up images of movie studios, palatial homes, beautiful women draped in designer gowns and handsome men driving expensive cars. People flock to the famed California Mecca in hopes of becoming actors, directors, screenwriters, makeup artists and costume designers. Whether their interest is in set design or computer-generated special effects, they all want to be part of the magic that is the movie industry.
Toni Deegan was no different. She left her home in Mississippi at the age of eighteen and headed to the West Coast. The dark-haired beauty hoped to be her generation's Elizabeth Taylor. Even in a town where pretty girls seemed to sprout from the sidewalks like weeds in a garden, the southern belle stood out. If David O. Selznick were alive in the twenty-first century, looking to remake Gone with the Wind, he would have to look no further than Miss Deegan for a new Scarlett O'Hara. Not only was she every bit as captivating as Vivien Leigh, but she spoke with the correct accent: Southern, not British.
Even though she had no acting experience beyond appearing as Maria in her high school production of West Side Story, she got her first role—a two-line part as a cocktail waitress in a Martin Scorsese film—less than six months after leaving Biloxi. Other minor roles followed in which she played a high school cheerleader, a beauty pageant contestant and a high society call girl. The fact that the moderate success she was able to achieve was the result of her good looks and not her acting ability did not upset her. Her ultimate goal was to be a movie star, not a great actress.
The first lead role she was offered was that of Countess Elizabeth Báthory in a horror film that was thinly disguised as historical drama. The real-life Hungarian noblewoman, nicknamed the Blood Countess and Countess Dracula, was a sadist who believed she could keep her youthful beauty by bathing in the blood of virgins.
"It's not a part that will ever earn you an Oscar nomination," Waldo Melnick, her agent, told her frankly, "but, let's face it, you're no Meryl Streep."
Toni did not take offense at his words. Unlike most people in the film industry, she did not have an ego the size of Texas.
"That's okay. I don't need any awards or words of praise from the critics. I'll settle for being rich and famous."
"Then you play Báthory. It'll be a stepping stone to better roles. I promise."
What neither Waldo nor his client had foreseen was the devastating car crash that would end her career. After attending a party in Brentwood, Toni accepted a ride home from Cal Bannan, the former Olympic athlete turned action star, who was in the midst of divorcing his third wife.
"Are you sure you should be driving?" she asked as Cal fumbled with his key to open the driver's side door of his Ferrari.
"I'm fine," he assured her. "I could drive this beauty with my eyes closed."
In retrospect, she ought to have called a cab rather than get into a car driven by a man whose blood alcohol level was clearly way over the legal limit. But cabs were expensive. Not only that, this was the life she always dreamed of: Hollywood parties, sports cars and A-list celebrities. She would be a fool to pass up such an opportunity.
* * *
Toni could not recall the crash. One moment she was sitting in the passenger seat of Bannan's Ferrari, listening to his marital problems; the next, she was lying in a hospital bed, covered in bandages and trying to break through the fog of pain medication.
"What happened?" she managed to ask.
"You were in an accident," Waldo replied. "Thankfully, you survived."
"What about Cal Bannan?"
"I'm afraid he was killed instantly."
"I hope they can delay the filming of Countess Blood until I'm able to get out of here," the actress said, not wanting to dwell on the tragic death of one of the industry's most illustrious stars.
"I'm sorry, but they've already recast that role."
"They couldn't wait until I recovered?"
Waldo lowered his eyes. Why didn't he let the doctor deliver the bad news to his client? Why had he volunteered to be the messenger?
"Your injuries ...," he began, trying to select his words carefully, so as to minimize the impact. "You weren't actually injured in the crash. You were wearing a seatbelt at the time, and the airbag prevented you from hitting the windshield."
"Then why am I in this hospital being pumped full of painkillers?" Toni demanded to know.
"The car caught on fire, and before the emergency team could arrive at the scene, you suffered extensive burns."
"My face?"
The emotional agony behind those two words was far greater than any physical pain she suffered, and no amount of medication could ease it.
"Perhaps with plastic surgery ...."
The rest of the agent's sentence was lost, drowned out by his client's heart-wrenching screams.
Days passed, and Toni slipped deeper into a state of depression. A psychiatrist was called in, and the actress was placed under suicide watch.
"Just what I need: another doctor!" she complained to her agent. "I don't know how I'm going to pay for all this when I clearly have no career now."
"Don't worry about the medical bills. What Bannan's insurance company doesn't pay for his estranged wife will cover. Since their divorce wasn't finalized at the time of his death, she inherits everything. She's willing to pay for all your outstanding medical expenses. No doubt, she's afraid you'll sue the estate and get a hell of a lot more since Cal was drunk as a skunk when he got behind the wheel."
"So, theoretically, I could walk away from all this a wealthy woman."
"Yes, provided you don't sign any papers now."
Although pursuing a lawsuit tempted her, she would much rather have had a successful career and earned her own fortune. Alas, the car crash and fire had destroyed all likelihood of that occurring.
* * *
When Godfrey Tennyson walked into her hospital room, Toni assumed he was a lawyer representing either Cal Bannan's insurance company or his widow. The distinguished-looking, smartly dressed, gray-haired gentleman had a distinct professional air about him.
"Miss Deegan?" he asked, unable to see her face beneath the bandages.
"That's me. Who are you?"
"Dr. Godfrey Tennyson."
"Another shrink?"
"No, I'm a plastic surgeon."
A spark of hope ignited in her heart.
"I've been told my burns are too extensive for surgery."
"Nonsense! Maybe the doctors here are unable to perform such a miracle, but I am quite capable of giving you a new face."
"I'd much rather have my old one back," she laughed.
"I can make you one of the most beautiful women in Hollywood."
"Modesty is obviously not your strong point."
"Modesty is for lesser men. I'm the best in my field—no exaggeration."
"And how much will your services cost? I don't have a job, you know."
"Ah, but you will. You'll have producers knocking down your door, offering you the choicest roles in the biggest blockbusters."
"And you'd be willing to defer payment until I can afford it?"
"Frankly, I don't give a damn about the money. I'm a very wealthy man. My practice allows me to occasionally offer my services pro bono."
"I hate to sound like Blanche DuBois, but I'm not used to the kindness of strangers. What's the catch?" she asked with suspicion.
"When I read about your accident in the paper," the surgeon explained, "I was emotionally touched. A young woman on the verge of achieving stardom having her dreams crushed in an instant. I decided then and there I would help you."
Toni was smart enough to know a good deal when she saw one. After being discharged from the hospital, she accepted Godfrey Tennyson's invitation to stay at his private clinic, hidden away in the mountains of Northern California, while he performed his medical miracle.
"This is some place!" the actress exclaimed when he pulled up to the front door after the long drive. "How many patients have you got staying here?"
"Right now? Six," he answered. "You make seven."
"Why so few? You could easily fit a few dozen more."
"Only the east wing serves as a clinic. This building also houses my research laboratory and my personal residence."
A man dressed in a medical uniform, whom the doctor addressed as Omar, took the patient's bags upstairs to her room. As she followed behind him, she saw no other patients.
"Where are the others?" she asked him.
"Resting," he replied.
The man being far from friendly, the actress made no further attempt at conversation. When he removed a key from his pocket and unlocked the door to her room, she stood on the threshold, dumbfounded.
This is a hospital room? she wondered.
The luxurious décor made it look more like a suite at the Ritz. There was not a piece of medical equipment in sight. No monitors. No adjustable hospital bed. No stands for IV drips. There were also no mirrors, not even one in the bathroom above the sink.
I suppose this room is reserved for people like me who don't want to be reminded of what they look like.
After she had the opportunity to settle into her new surroundings, her host knocked on her door.
"Would you like a tour of the facility before dinner?" he inquired.
"I'd love one. This place is so big I might need a map to find my way around."
He first took her to the operating room.
That's more like it, she thought. This has got all the medical bells and whistles I expected to see in a high-priced surgical clinic.
"And this is the recovery room. Of course, once patients are fully conscious, they're taken to their private rooms. I'm sure you'll agree they're much more comfortable."
"I'll say! My room seems like the presidential suite of a five-star hotel."
Most of the doors they passed were closed. Since Dr. Tennyson did not include them on his "tour," Toni assumed they were patients' suites, storage rooms or office space.
"Didn't you say you had a lab here?" she asked.
"Yes, but not in this wing. The clinic is cut off from the rest of this house. So, you see, you won't need a map after all. You'll be confined to this general area during your stay here."
"And how long will that be?"
"That all depends."
"On what?"
"On how quickly you heal between surgeries."
Before leaving the hospital, Toni caught a glimpse of what the fire had done to her face. The burns were extensive, and she could well understand why more than one operation was necessary.
"I hope you brought along a supply of reading materials."
"I picked up a couple of paperbacks at the hospital gift shop."
"Good. Your room has a TV, but reception is poor, so it only gets three channels. I'm afraid we're too far from town to get cable. And, let me warn you ahead of time, there's no cell phone service."
"No doubt it will be hard, but I'm sure I'll survive without my iPhone."
"Ah, here we are. The dining room."
Although it could comfortably accommodate ten people, the table was set for two.
"Won't the other patients be joining us?" the actress asked.
"No. Most of them prefer being alone. Although all of them have had at least one operation already, they're still very self-conscious about their looks."
"Were they all as badly injured as I was?"
"Some of them were. Others were born with disfiguring birth defects. As such, they were subjected to ridicule and pity their entire lives. You can understand why they're not very sociable."
The door from the kitchen opened, and the same man who had taken her bags up to her room brought in a tray of food.
"Ah, here's Omar with our dinner. What type of dressing would you like on your salad?"
"French, if you have it."
"I'm sure we do. Omar, will you get the young lady some French dressing?"
"So, is Omar the butler here?"
"He's a jack of all trades. Nurse, lab assistant. You name it."
"Doesn't that make him a bit overqualified to be serving our dinner?"
"Given the limited number of patients here to tend to, he has a lot of free time on his hands. Besides, he's well-compensated for all that he does."
Dinner was a three-course meal consisting of salad, salmon, baked potato and asparagus with hollandaise sauce, followed by bananas foster for dessert.
"I can't eat all this food," the actress protested.
"Since we'll be doing your first surgery tomorrow, you won't be allowed anything to eat or drink after midnight. So, I suggest you eat up now while you can."
After dinner, Dr. Tennyson offered to walk her back to her room.
"That won't be necessary. I think I can find my way. I'll follow the trail of breadcrumbs I left earlier."
"There's something I'd like to show you first. It's not a part of the actual clinic, but it's located in the east wing."
Toni followed him past the dining room to a door just off the entrance foyer. When he opened it, she saw a huge room filled with glass display cases.
"What's all this?" she asked.
"My collection," he answered proudly.
Movie posters hung on the walls, and the cases were filled with Hollywood memorabilia.
"You're a film buff?"
"Yes. I've been one since I was a little boy and my mother used to take me to the matinee every Saturday afternoon."
Toni noticed a collection of autographed photos hanging on the wall, all protected by glass frames.
"I see you have a thing for blondes. Veronica Lake, Jean Harlow, Jayne Mansfield ...."
"Aren't they exquisite? All six of these women were like goddesses, and yet they all had tragic ends. Harlow died of kidney failure at twenty-six. Mansfield and Princess Grace were both killed in car accidents. Jean Seberg committed suicide. Veronica Lake died from hepatitis and kidney injury. And Sharon Tate—well, you know what happened to her."
"I'm surprised you don't have Marilyn Monroe's photo on your wall. She's probably the most famous blonde in Hollywood history. And you can't deny she had a tragic end."
"Marilyn memorabilia is in high demand—as you can well imagine. But one day—very soon, I hope—she'll be up there. In fact, I recently purchased several personal items that belonged to her."
Godfrey led Toni to a case where a silver hairbrush and mirror set, both engraved with Monroe's initials, was kept.
"I spent a small fortune on these at Christie's, but they were worth every penny!"
After showing the actress personal items that belonged to the other five blond goddesses on his wall, including a pair of earrings that belonged to Sharon Tate, Dr. Tennyson locked the door to his private museum and escorted the patient back to her room.
"I know you must be excited about the procedure tomorrow, but try to get a good night's rest," he advised. "If you have any trouble falling asleep, just ring the bell, and Omar will bring you some pills."
The following morning Toni woke up well-rested and eager to have the first of her procedures over and done with. Promptly at seven, Omar knocked on her door.
"It's time," he called.
"I'm ready."
There was no need for a wheelchair. The actress walked to the operating room without any assistance. Dr. Tennyson was waiting for her, wearing a light blue scrub suit, cap, surgical mask and gloves.
"Just lie down and make yourself comfortable," he instructed.
Toni did as she was told. As she lay her head back on the operating table, she was suddenly filled with apprehension. What if something went wrong? Could her face look even worse than it already did?
As Omar hooked the patient up to a monitor, the surgeon administered an intravenous anesthetic.
"I'm going to use general anesthesia, so you won't feel a thing," he said. "Now, if you can count backward from one hundred."
Omar covered her nose and mouth with a silicone mask.
"Ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-seven ...."
It was as far as she got.
When she opened her eyes again, she was in the recovery room.
"Everything went well," Dr. Tennyson announced. "Barring any complications, next week, we'll do the second procedure."
"So soon? I thought it was recommended to wait six to twelve weeks before surgeries."
"You've been doing a little research on the Internet, I see," he laughed. "For normal plastic surgery, yes, a longer wait time is recommended. However, I use cutting-edge technology—no pun intended. Using my methods, in six weeks you'll be a whole new woman!"
* * *
"And how are you feeling today?" Dr. Tennyson asked when he visited Toni the morning after her third surgery.
"I'm okay, I suppose," she replied, pushing her breakfast aside.
"Just okay?"
"I feel funny. There's no pain or even discomfort. It's just that my skin tingles, for lack of a better word."
"That's a good sign. That means you're healing."
"But it's not just my face. I feel it all over my body. Not only that ...."
"What?" the surgeon asked, noting her hesitation to continue.
"My body seems ... different somehow."
"That's a perfectly normal reaction. Often people who have extensive plastic surgery experience a lack of identity. They see their bodies as alien, even parts of their body that haven't been altered by the operations. But the emotional trauma will pass. It always does."
"Will I need psychotherapy?"
"Good heavens, no! You'll be feeling better soon enough without any psychiatrist poking around in your head."
As the week wore on, however, and the day of her fourth procedure neared, Toni experienced a more profound alienation from her body. She would spend hours closely examining her arms, legs and torso.
Was this mole always here? My fingers look thinner. I hope my rings still fit. There's a small scar on my knee, but I don't know how or when I got it.
In addition to the emotional trauma of the surgery, she was feeling the strain of having spent a month in her room with nothing to do but read and watch television. When she suggested to Dr. Tennyson that she get together with some of the other patients in hopes of passing the time, he informed her that only two of those patients remained; the other four had been discharged.
"Maybe the three of us could have lunch together," she suggested.
"I'll mention it to them," he replied, but nothing ever came of it.
The fourth and fifth procedures were as successful as the first, second and third—at least according to Dr. Tennyson they were. Toni had seen no evidence of this herself since her face remained wrapped in bandages. What she did see was her ever-changing body.
"I know my nails weren't this long yesterday," she said after her fifth operation. "Even my voice seems different. I seem to be losing my Southern accent."
"It's just your imagination. Trust me. I've been through this with other patients. Your mind is playing tricks on you."
"When can I see my face?"
"There's still one more procedure ...."
"I don't care. I want to see it now!"
"I'm afraid I can't allow that," the surgeon insisted.
"Why not? Has something gone wrong?"
"If I remove the bandages, you run the risk of an infection."
"Will the next operation be the last? Can I finally go home after that?"
"Once you've fully recovered, yes."
"And how long will that take?"
"It's hard to say. It varies from patient to patient."
"Give me a ballpark estimate then."
"I'd say four to six weeks."
"That long?" she cried.
"You knew it would take time. I've basically had to rebuild your face."
"But I never realized I'd be confined to a room for such a long period of time. Honestly, if I have to watch another episode of Law & Order, I'm going to lose my mind—if I haven't already."
"Be patient," Dr. Tennyson advised as he headed toward the door of her room. "Once you see how beautiful you are, you'll be more than pleased."
* * *
Despite the final procedure having been completed, the bandages remained. Dr. Tennyson refused to remove them until his patient was fully recovered.
"How can you tell when that will be?" Toni asked. "You never examine my face."
"I'll take a look at it in four weeks. By then the skin will be healed."
"Another month," she groaned. "I don't suppose you have any good novels lying around here. I finished the ones I brought with me."
"Other than medical journals, I don't read much. But I have to drive to San Francisco today. I can pick you up something to read while I'm there."
"Great. I'm sure James Patterson has had two or three new books published while I've been here."
Toni heard the surgeon drive away in his Mercedes and then waited ten minutes before leaving the confines of her room to explore the clinic. She began with the other patients' rooms.
"Hello? Is anyone in there?" she asked, knocking softly on the door next to hers.
When she received no answer, she turned the handle and opened it. The room was empty. No furniture. No carpets. Nothing but white walls and a bare floor. She then tried the other rooms. They were empty as well.
Am I the only patient here? But even if the others were discharged, why has everything, including the furniture, been removed?
There were more than two dozen doors in the clinic, none of which were locked. With the exception of her own room, the operating room, the recovery room, the dining room and the kitchen, all the others were vacant.
"This is no clinic," she concluded.
With that realization came fear. What had she gotten herself into? Toni had not been so stupid as to blindly trust a man who claimed to be a doctor. She had checked Godfrey Tennyson out on the Internet and confirmed that he was one of the most skilled and respected plastic surgeons in the world. Whatever he had going on here, however, she wanted no part of it.
"If I can find a phone, I could call Waldo and ask him to come and get me. There's no cell phone service here, but there must be a landline."
She left the east wing, crossed through the foyer of the main entrance and found a hallway that led to the western portion of the house. On the wall leading to the large living room were portraits of Dr. Tennyson's favorite blondes, the same six actresses whose autographed photos were kept in his private museum. After searching the living room and finding no telephone, she headed toward the dining room and then the kitchen.
"He must have a phone somewhere," she reasoned as she exited the master bedroom. "Surely, a man in his position has to maintain contact with the outside world."
None of the rooms in the surgeon's residence had a telephone, though. Perhaps there was one in his lab. But where was that? Toni retraced her steps back to the foyer. Hidden behind a profusion of live plants and a water feature was another door.
"Just my luck, it will be locked."
When she turned the handle, however, it opened easily.
"A garage," she groaned with disappointment. "No one keeps a phone in ...."
Suddenly she saw a staircase leading up to a second story. Could the doctor's research laboratory be on the upper floor, set off from the rest of the house? There was only one way to find out.
As she stood in front of the door with her right hand on the knob, the actress heard muffled voices coming from the other side. It suddenly occurred to her that Omar must live on the premises as well. Most likely, the door led to his apartment. She was about to give up her search and return to the east wing when she identified the voice as female.
Does Omar have a girl in there? she wondered. He may be married, for all I know. If so, would his wife be willing to help me get out of here?
There was only one way to find out. Toni turned the handle on the door and pushed.
"Oh, my God!" she cried when she entered the second of Dr. Tennyson's private museums.
There were the six blondes again. Only these were no photographs or painted portraits. These were living, breathing women. Although the rooms in which they were housed were luxurious and comfortable, they were nonetheless prison cells.
"I see Godfrey is up to his old tricks again," said a woman who could have been Jean Harlow's identical twin when she noted the bandages on the patient'ss face. "How did you get in here?"
"I'm trying to find a way out of the clinic," Toni replied.
"Take me with you," pleaded the blonde who looked and sounded like Jayne Mansfield.
"Me, too," Veronica Lake's double added.
"Do any of you know where there's a phone?"
"In his lab," the faux Grace Kelly replied. "He took me there once, and I saw it on the wall."
"How do I get to the lab?"
The sound of approaching footsteps silenced the human replica of the beautiful Sharon Tate before she could answer.
"He's coming," Harlow cautioned.
"No. It must be Omar. Dr. Tennyson went to San Francisco."
Toni looked around; there was nowhere to hide. She braced herself, fearing the nurse/handyman would come through the door and drag her back to the clinic.
"Damn it!" she heard Omar swear on the other side of the door. "Godfrey forgot to lock the door again."
The sound of the bolt being drawn brought momentary relief that quickly faded when she realized she was locked inside the room with the six blondes. Once Toni realized there was no way out, she gave in to her curiosity.
"Who are all of you?" she asked.
"We were all patients of Dr. Tennyson. I was a secretary working for Twentieth Century Fox. When my crazy ex-boyfriend threw acid in my face, the good surgeon offered to help me—out of the kindness of his heart."
"That's a laugh!" the woman with Sharon Tate's face said with bitterness.
"He promised to give me a new face," Harlow continued. "When the bandages were finally removed, I no longer looked anything like I used to. Even my hair was different. I was always a redhead, not a blonde."
"The same goes for the rest of us," Jean Seberg's lookalike explained. "All of us had extensive injuries requiring plastic surgery. And then Dr. Tennyson shows up, offering to do the work for free. We came here and were transformed."
"So, he used his surgical skills to recreate his Hollywood idols," Toni surmised.
"No," the femme fatale Veronica Lake declared. "He never actually performed surgery on us. Oh, he took us into the operating room and had Omar anesthetize us, but it was a scam to keep us quiet so that we wouldn't suspect what he was really up to."
"What was that?"
"He was using us to create clones."
It was left to Jayne Mansfield's likeness to explain.
"I assume he showed you his collection of Hollywood memorabilia? Well, he is able to extract DNA from the personal objects. For instance, he purchased a pair of earrings that belonged to Sharon Tate. He managed to get her DNA, replicate it and inject it into Esmé Leroux over there. After six or more weeks of these shots, she ceased to be Esmé and became Sharon Tate."
"How could anyone ...?"
Toni's question died on her lips as a memory of her first night in the clinic suddenly surfaced. In giving her a tour of the facility, Dr. Tennyson had taken her into his display room and shown her his latest acquisition: a silver brush and mirror set, both engraved with the initials MM. Brushes usually contain hair, and hair follicles are a good source of ....
"He's got her DNA!" she exclaimed.
The actress reached up and tore the bandages from her face.
"Well, he's finally done it," the fake Grace Kelly said when she saw the latest blonde in the doctor's collection. "He's recreated Marilyn Monroe at last."
* * *
In the years ahead, Toni Deegan often cursed Godfrey Tennyson for what he had done to her and to her six blond companions. He had turned her into a living work of art for his personal enjoyment. Locked away in a room above the surgeon's garage, she was no longer a person but a piece of memorabilia. But as much as she hated him—and she and the other blondes certainly did!—she could not accuse him of lying. When he visited her in the hospital after the car crash that claimed Cal Bannan's life, he had promised to give her a new face and make her one of the most beautiful women in Hollywood.
And—damn his soul for all eternity!—he had kept that promise.
Despite what Clairol says, Salem learned the hard way that blondes don't necessarily have more fun.
