Chocolates for Breakfast (6 page)

“Court,” said Al, “how would you like to come over to the apartment for a drink?”

He felt sorry for the kid, sitting there so alone and thoughtful. What he said must have upset her. He should have waited until she was settled here before he sprung the bankruptcy business on her. But he was always speaking without thinking. When he had something to say, he simply said it.

Courtney was delighted at the invitation. No one had ever asked her to have a drink with him before.

“I'd love to, Al.”

They walked across the street to Al's apartment. As they entered, it suddenly occurred to Courtney that maybe she shouldn't be going into a man's apartment. Her mother had always told her not to. But then she laughed at herself because this wasn't a man, this was Al, and she was only a kid anyway.

When the “drink” turned out to be grapefruit juice, she felt even more foolish at her moment of hesitation. She sat across from him on the couch in the dim living room.

“I hope what I said didn't upset you, sweetie,” he said as he sipped his grapefruit juice.

“No, Al, not really. I always expect everything to be perfect, I guess, and it kind of spoiled my illusion to think that we were going to be broke, and to face a reality like that.”

“Christ, kid, I thought you were the sensible member of the family. You're sounding like your mother.”

“You know, we're a lot more alike than you think we are.” She leaned back against the couch and stared at the ceiling with its indirect lighting. “Sometimes I wish I could leave it all—this sophistication—and be different from what I see around me.”

“You can try, Court.”

“No, it just doesn't work. Last night, when I got back here, I realized that I couldn't ever be different from what I had been brought up to be. Maybe if I'd been farmed out to somebody like you when I was six or so, I could have been different. Now, I'm just stuck with cocktails at eleven and breakfast at noon.”

“You sound as though you were my age.”

“I'm nearly a woman, Al. If I ever had a childhood, it's behind me now, and the kind of person I'm going to be is established whether I like it or not. I can fight it, but I'll just wear myself out and confuse myself.” She sat up and rubbed her neck. “I'm stiff from sleeping on that plane.”

“Want me to rub your neck?”

“Yes, I'd like that.”

Al took his grapefruit juice and sat beside her. He put his square, brown hands on her neck and manipulated the smooth young muscles under his fingers. He could feel the tightness and concentrated on it, trying to ignore the firm, tanned body beneath his fingers. After all, Courtney was only a kid, and she trusted him.

Courtney liked the feeling of a man rubbing her neck. She leaned against him and smiled. She liked men, and she was fond of Al. She felt a warmth, leaning against him, and she was conscious of a new feeling. This was an alive, communicated sensation, a sensation of warmth with a growing tension. She was not that young: she knew that she was attracted to Al and liked the nearness of his body.

Al leaned down and kissed the back of her neck. Courtney was no longer Courtney, she was a vibrant young woman leaning against him. Gently, he put her head down on the couch and moved her legs until she was lying down beside him. He kissed her shoulder softly and ran his hands along her arms. He put his head against her, and the vibrancy that the young body gave out became intense.

Courtney, too, had lost her identity in emotion. She had never known a sensation like this. Her mind, the mind that had always ruled her, became shadowy and inconsequential in the passion of her release, and she had no time to regret its passing sovereignty. Her body was suddenly alive, with an awareness she had not known it was capable of. She was wanted, and she was happy in being wanted.

“Relax,” he said softly. “Put your arms around me.”

As she heard his voice it became real to her, and she was shocked and turned her head away.

Al sat up and looked at her, young, untouched and somehow defenseless. She lay there, saying nothing, not moving.

“You're like a doll,” he said. “A wooden doll.”

She didn't answer.

“You're a very decent kid,” he said. “I'm glad to see that. You're all right, Courtney. Stay that way. Don't let some bastard like me make you.”

“No, not very decent,” she murmured, for she felt very unclean and sweaty, and she was disgusted at herself. She sat up. Al moved to the couch across from her, taking his grapefruit juice with him.

“I'm sorry kid. I didn't know—I wasn't sure. You seemed to know so much more than you do know. I'm sorry if I hurt you, because I'm real fond of you, and I wouldn't want to hurt you. But I never do think.”

“No, Al.” She grinned to make him feel better. “Hell, no. I was to blame, too, because I wanted you to make love to me. I wanted somebody to—and then I was afraid and I knew I didn't want it. Have you got a cigarette?”

She had never asked for a cigarette; she didn't really want to smoke, she had learned so recently and was unused to it. But somehow it seemed appropriate to have a cigarette, and she smoked it with concentration, being very careful not to look like a neophyte.

Al was surprised that she should ask for a cigarette. She had never smoked before, and he didn't like the idea. But he had lost his right to guide her by becoming merely a man before her. He had lost his place of honor, and he said nothing as she smoked the cigarette and stared into space. He felt awkward in the silence. He had made passes and been rebuffed before, and girls had been embarrassed, but none of them had ever sat silently looking at the opposite wall. He felt like a real heel.

“For Chrissake,” he said finally.

Courtney looked up.

“Can I take you to dinner tonight?”

Courtney didn't want to. She didn't want to see him; she wanted to erase what had just happened. But she didn't want Al to be upset, for after all, a woman should expect to have passes made at her and shouldn't blame the man. Besides, she knew she couldn't run away and if she said no she would be running away again.

“Okay, Al.”

“I'll come by the villa at six.”

“Okay, Al.”

“All those people should have left the villa by now,” she said. “I think I'll go back.”

“Want me to introduce you to those kids?” He felt he should do something to restore her to being a kid. He had lectured her mother so much about that, and now he had gone and violated his own purpose.

“No.” She had no desire to meet them, the young intruders. She was not one with them and never could be. She got up.

“See you, Al.”

“I'm sorry,” he said again.

“For what?” she said. “What the hell, Al.”

She shrugged and walked casually into the California afternoon to her mother's villa, and seeing that no one was there, flung herself on the bed and cried.

Chapter 6

T
he late afternoon was quiet and thoughtful. Courtney was wearing those Levi's which her mother disliked, the tight ones, and she was sitting beside the window reading Baudelaire's
Les Fleurs du Mal.

As she watched Courtney, Sondra wondered what had depressed the child. She had been pleased that Al asked her to dinner. Courtney was so fond of Al, and she trusted in him so. Yet after dinner Courtney seemed even more upset. She was silent and withdrawn. But then Courtney had become more withdrawn than Sondra had ever seen her during this last year. Possibly that only meant that she was growing up and away from her.

“Courtney—”

“Yes, Mummy.”

“Courtney, I wish you would tell me what's bothering you. Maybe I could do something about it.”

“Nothing's bothering me, Mummy.”

“I suppose you wouldn't tell me anyway,” Sondra said wearily.

“Probably not.”

“Would you like me to have someone in for dinner? Would that cheer you up?”

“Mummy, I'm not depressed.”

“Of course you are. Aren't you having a good time? You have those nice boys to swim with, for a change.”

“Yes, they're nice kids. They're awfully young.”

“You're not that old,” Sondra smiled.

“Mmm-hmm.” Courtney was trying to read.

“Well, you can't wallow in this mood,” Sondra said finally. “You're an awfully dull person to have around.”

“I'm sorry, Mummy, if I bore you.”

“We'll have a marvelous dinner at Scandia, and I'll ask someone along.” Sondra thought a moment. “Barry Cabot, or Patrick Cavanaugh. They're always amusing.”

“Mummy, that's awfully expensive.”

“Not really.” She looked sharply at her daughter. “What is this sudden concern for money? Last night you told me that you didn't want a new winter coat, you said that your old polo coat would do. You're getting to sound like your father.”

“We ought to—well, we're kind of broke, aren't we?”

“Did your father tell you that?”

“He kind of mentioned it, but—”

“For God's sake, what is he worrying you with money for?”

“Well, Daddy wasn't the only—”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Nick is going to star me in that next picture, so we don't have to worry, even though the studio didn't pick up my option. I think I'll make more freelancing, anyway, so it's just as well.”

“Crap.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“I said, crap.”

“Don't talk to me that way.”

“Sorry.”

“What's gotten into you, anyway?”

Courtney shrugged. What could she say? There was so much to say.

“I'm asking Barry to dinner. Why don't you go over to the Thespian and ask him? The walk will do you good.”

It was easy to predict that at four o'clock Barry would be at the Thespian, a bar a block away from the Garden. He didn't come over to the Garden until he had managed to have someone buy him a Caesar salad (“Oh, no, I've eaten. But I'll have a salad to keep you company while you have dinner, darling.”) to sustain him until breakfast at two the next afternoon.

Courtney saw his car outside, a snub-nosed and defiant little '41 convertible. She waited outside a few minutes, looking at the car. She was as nervous as though she were going in to see the headmistress. Finally she took as deep a breath as her tight Levi's, worn low on her hips, would allow, summoned up her fifteen (nearly sixteen) years of sophistication, and walked in. She looked falteringly around the dim and almost empty bar. The white-haired bartender looked up—disapprovingly, Courtney thought.

“I . . . was looking for someone,” she said in a clear and defiant voice. “Is Barry Cabot here?”

“Hel-
lo
, sweetie.” He got the full value of the words, speaking in a soft and rich voice. “Come have a Coke with me, Court.”

“Barry—I didn't see you.” She was intensely self-conscious. “I came over to ask you to dinner with Mummy and me. She sent me over.” She was regaining her poise, and was very excited that she was in a bar with Barry Cabot; she felt terribly adult.

“I would love to have dinner with you and Mummy,” he smiled. “But have a Coke while I finish my drink.”

Courtney paused, but only for a moment. It wasn't as though the Thespian was a
bar
, for Chrissake, it was a quiet little place where everyone went. Families and all that. And her mother would know where she was, and she would only be a few minutes drinking her Coke, anyway.

“Okay,” she said. “Thank you.” And she sat beside him at the bar.

“A Coke for the young lady, Pete. And another of the same for me.”

“I have to get back to tell Mummy you can come,” she said.

“It will take me about three minutes to drink that martini.”

Courtney nodded reluctantly.

“Cigarette, Courtney?”

“Yes, please.” She was going to hell fast, as Janet would say. But no, Janet would be pleased.

He lit her cigarette, solemnly holding the match until she finally took a long enough drag to get it lit. He quickly blew the match out because it was burning his finger. There was no reaction on his face as she took a long and obviously determined drag and exhaled it immediately.

“I've heard a great deal about you,” he said. “I've been anxious to meet you for quite a while.”

“Mummy's told me about you, too.” Yes, her mother had told her that Barry was a near-alcoholic and a homosexual. She had also told her that Barry was very charming. The rest meant nothing to Courtney.

“Your mother is quite a woman.”

“Yes, she's a fabulous person.”

There was a silence. The bartender brought the martini and the Coke. Barry lit a cigarette. He started to hum.

“Bored?” Courtney said coolly. It was a line her mother used.

“No, no, sweetie. Not at all.”

He shifted in his chair.

There was a sudden burst of laughter from one of the tables in the corner.

“And of course,” said a woman's throaty voice, “the part that Marilyn had in that last picture she could have phoned in.
Phoned
it in, for God's sake.” The two men at the table laughed.

“Pete,” Barry said, “another martini.”

“A Coke for you, Miss?”

“No thanks, I haven't finished this one.”

There was another silence.

“And the scene that George made when he found out,” said an effeminate man's voice. “Christ, you could hear him for blocks. As though it hadn't happened before.”

“Besides,” said the other man, “everyone knows that he screws all his clients.”

So that's what screw means, thought Courtney. No wonder Miss Rosen objected to my using it. Conservative little woman. She smiled.

“What are you thinking about?” asked Barry.

“Nothing in particular,” Courtney said.

“How do you like it out here?” Barry said finally.

“Oh, I adore it!” Her green eyes were intense. “It's a marvelous fairylike town. Unreal. Of course, its unreality is kind of frightening after a while. It's the only town I've ever been in where I would wake up in the morning and look out the window to be sure it hadn't disappeared in the night.”

“Yes, that's the way I feel, too. It's a town of waiting. Waiting by the phone for a call, waiting in the morning for the mail, to see if you can eat for the next few months. And then the escapes. Having a stiff drink, or calling some broad—excuse me—because the call or the letter never came. It's a lousy town. I wish I could get out of it. I wish to hell I could leave. I've been here for eleven years.”

“Why don't you leave? Go to New York, for example?”

“Well, there's always the chance that a break might come. I guess that's the reason I stay.”

“You're afraid to go,” she said. “You're afraid to build a life and work in another town.”

“No, I'm not afraid,” he said angrily. “I've put in a lot of work here, and it's bound to pay off.”

“The way it's paid off for the actors who sit around the Garden and drink themselves into unreality?”

“Why are you talking to me like this?”

“Because I think it's true.”

“Jesus, you're a funny kid. Nobody's ever said anything like this to me. You're real frank. I like that. It's refreshing.”

“Pete,” he said, “another martini. Would you like a drink, doll?”

“Yes,” she said. “I would like a daiquiri.”

“And a daiquiri for the lady.”

“Is she of age, Mr. Cabot?”

“I'll vouch for it, Pete.”

“I'll have nothing to lose by speaking frankly,” Courtney went on. “No job at stake, no future contacts, and as for losing friends by frankness, I stopped worrying about that a long time ago.”

“A long time ago. How old are you, Court?”

“Fifteen. Almost sixteen,” she added hastily. “Sixteen at the end of June.”

“Sixteen. God. You know, I'm twenty-eight. I must seem like an old man to you.”

“No,” she grinned. “Not at all.”

“What marvelous eyes you have,” he said. “What color are they—gray?”

“They're kind of green.”

The bar had filled up, the people at the corner table were still talking and laughing, but they were now shut out and their voices an obbligato.

He leaned toward her, his hand on her shoulder. Her body tensed, as it had yesterday, and that communicated sensation was there again. What was happening to her lately? Why was she suddenly so receptive and so conscious of men? Was it boarding school, and being unused to seeing men, or was it something else?

“Yes,” he said. “They are green. Green, very big, and intense. They're marvelous eyes, like the eyes of an actress.”

She was a little embarrassed. He leaned back and raised his glass. She took her daiquiri and they touched glasses.

My God, she thought, this is wonderful. Barry Cabot.

“Glad to be out of boarding school?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Awfully glad. I hated boarding school. For one thing, I hated being with all those women all the time. I don't like women.”

“You like men?” he said.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “I adore men.”

“Really?”

“Per se. Indiscriminately.” She grinned.

He raised his eyebrows. “Drink up,” he said.

“People had told me that you were a very lovely girl,” he said. “They were right. Ever consider going into the movies?”

She grinned, “Could you get me a part, Mr. Cabot?”

“Oh, call me Barry,” he smiled, continuing the play. “Yeah, baby doll, I can get you a part.”

“Oh, that would be wonderful, Barry. Do you know directors and producers?”

“Do I! Baby, I been in this business a long time. What about—coming up to my place for dinner and we could—talk about your career?”

“Barry, I don't know what to say! This is the first break I've had since I've been out here!”

They both laughed and he put his arms around her.

“Sweetie, you're all right. Pete—another round.”

As they talked, Courtney forgot her depression and her solitude, and she was very happy. More people came into the Thespian as the evening came, and they looked at Courtney and Barry leaning close together at the bar, engrossed in their conversation.

“Look at the new broad Cabot has with him,” said one man to his companion. “She's young, but she's real good-looking. That sonavabitch does all right.”

They didn't see the people who came in, and they didn't see the windows darken and the lights go on.

“Barry.” A husky young man came up to them.

“Oh, hi, George.” Barry was embarrassed.

“You said you'd call me at seven,” George said petulantly. “I waited and you never called, so I came to get you.”

“My God, I'm sorry, George.” Suddenly he was resentful. “Why did you come to get me, anyway? You could have called me, you know. You have no right to come after me.” He turned to Courtney. “I'm awfully sorry, darling. I can't have dinner with you. I have another engagement. . . . George,” he said, “this is Courtney—Sondra Farrell's daughter.”

“How do you do.” Courtney held out her hand.

George ignored it, nodding briefly.

“I didn't realize it was so late. Mummy will be furious!”

“Can you get dinner all right?”

“Mummy has probably gone on by now, knowing Mummy.”

“Isn't there anything you can have at the villa?”

You weak bastard, Courtney thought angrily. You know you ought to buy me dinner, even a hamburger, and you know Mummy will be angry with me, but you really don't care.

“I guess so,” she said. She wasn't going to make him feel obligated.

“I don't need to walk you home, do I? It's dark, but it's only a block.”

“No,” she said wearily. “You don't have to walk me home. I often walk alone at this hour. Good night, Barry.”

“Good night, sweetie.”

“Very glad to have met you,” she said to George.

He nodded and sat beside Barry in the seat Courtney had just vacated.

“I'm really sorry, George,” she heard Barry say as she went out. “But for Christ's sake, she's only a kid—”