Chocolates for Breakfast (17 page)

“Yes, sweetie, you really have lost weight, you look marvelous in that dress. I've been on a diet, but unless I go on the wagon, I don't suppose I'll ever lose weight, and I simply can't be on the wagon in the summer, the heat is too ghastly, and in the fall there are so many parties, right into the Christmas season—it's really a drag—”

Again Courtney retreated into the kitchen. She hadn't really wanted a martini after all. She poured the dregs of her drink down the drain and fixed herself a Scotch.

“My God, Court, was that a martini you threw out?”

“Oh, hi, George, I didn't see you,” she said.

“Perfectly sinful, to waste a good drink. Say, we haven't seen you in a month. Where have you been keeping yourself?”

“Oh, I'm being kept by a mad Italian nobleman,” Courtney laughed.

“Really? Congratulations, darling, but you should try the French.” He grinned. “Seriously, we have missed you. Say, how long have you been here?”

“Oh, about half an hour.”

“Well, why haven't I seen you? Who took you away to make mad love upstairs?”

“I was talking with Charles Cunningham, in the library.”

“Oh, Charlie. He's a great guy, brilliant lawyer. He's turned kind of straight-arrow lately. Used to be a real alkie, but he shaped up.”

“Yes, he is kind of straight-arrow,” Courtney agreed. This was more like it.

“Hey, sweetie, don't
nurse
that drink!”

“The last time I saw you, as I remember, I drank you under the table.”

“Well, try again. I'll match you. But nursing drinks is not allowed.”

“All right; I'm game.”

“Come on out into the living room, and I'll watch you get bombed.”

“No, I'll always outdrink you, sweetie.”

Courtney and George proceeded to match each other for drinks in quick succession, and Courtney found that very soon the conversations did not seem quite as trivial, and she no longer missed Anthony. In fact, she found that she was enjoying herself. Several hours later, she again found herself in the kitchen, taking George's brief absence as a chance to drink some ice water.

“Courtney, sweetie”—the Count wandered in unsteadily and kissed her passionately—“I love you.”

She disengaged herself from his embrace.

“I love you too, sweetie, but don't be so vema—
vehement
in your demonstration.”

“Oh, God, those syllables are too much for me,” the Count responded. “I'll go make love to Janet.”

“Mmm-hello, darling,” Peter put his arms around her and kissed her, taking his cue from the Count. “Why haven't we ever had an affair?”

“You're never sober enough,” Courtney laughed.

“Everyone seems to be kissing Courtney,” said a quiet, familiar voice. Charles held his martini to one side and kissed her on the forehead. “I've been looking all over for you. I see you've been catching up with the rest of the party,” he observed.

“Oh, the straight-arrow again,” said Courtney. “I'm just about to leave.”

“Marvelous. Then I'll take you home. I've canvassed the group and found no one quite so intelligent or attractive, so I've been in search of you.”

“George is taking me home,” Courtney said coolly.

Charles smiled. “I just passed George on his way to the men's room, and he seemed a little bombed. I think I'd better take you home.”

“I appreciate your solicitude,” said Courtney, “but George is taking me home.”

Charles shrugged. “The offer is still open, if you change your mind.”

George appeared in the doorway, and leaned his arm against it, taking the opportunity to kiss the forehead of a girl who ducked under it as she made her way back to the living room.

“Ready to go, George?” Courtney asked him.

“Go? Hell, there's still some liquor.”

“Well, I'm ready to go, sweetie,” she said.

“Then go. I'm going to drink,” George said without concern.

“Offer's still open,” said Charles.

“All right,” she sighed.

When they got into the cab, Charles looked at his watch.

“Twelve thirty,” he remarked. “Twenty One,” he said to the driver.

“That's not my address,” said Courtney.

“No,” said Charles, “but that's where we're going. I'm hungry as hell, and I think you could use some food.”

“I'm not bombed,” Courtney said distinctly. “And I was under the impression that you were taking me home.”

“I know you were,” he smiled. “Marvelous late supper at Twenty One.”

They were seated in the bar, at one of the small tables with red-checked tablecloths. The last time Courtney had been to Twenty One was with her father. She and Anthony went to the more obscure restaurants, but Twenty One had always been one of Courtney's favorites. Somehow it was a place that none of the young men she knew took her to; it was somehow too established and conservative, and she felt hesitant at suggesting it. There was something straight-arrow about Twenty One. She was glad they had come.

“You know,” she said, “despite my objections, I'm glad we came here. This is a marvelous place, and I never come here as often as I'd like to.”

“It doesn't appeal to your Crew,” Charles said. “You can neither get loudly drunk or make out here.”

“I do wish you'd stop referring to them as my Crew,” Courtney said wearily. “As a matter of fact, tonight was the first time in a month that I saw them.”

“Well, congratulations,” he said. “Seriously, it's not a good group for a young girl. No matter how well she behaves, if she goes around with them she is suspect. And I can sense that you're not a Janet Parker.”

“Janet's a marvelous girl,” Courtney said. “I told you she was a good friend of mine.”

“Oh, stop defending her,” he said with annoyance. “I think she's a great girl, too, but you know perfectly well what I'm talking about.”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I do,” Courtney said soberly. “It's really too bad that she's so confused, and that she's gotten herself the reputation she has.”

“You know,” Charles said, “a girl could live as Janet lives—and more so, because you have to discount eighty per cent of the stories about her, and nobody would have to know about it. I really think that she wants people to know.”

“That's one of the first intelligent things I've heard anyone say about Janet,” said Courtney. “She does want people to know. Most of all, she wants her parents to know, to hurt them.”

“Damned shame. With the family she has, though, it's not awfully hard to understand. Not that I endorse her behavior,” he said hastily, “but I can understand it.”

The waiter came over to them.

“I think I'll have a chicken sandwich,” said Courtney.

“Oh, darling, don't be so unimaginative. This is Saturday night and I have my check in my pocket. Let's have something gay like crepe suzettes.”

“That's a marvelous idea,” said Courtney.

“And if you're not averse to mixing the grape and the grain—”

“No.”

“—two cognacs.”

Courtney was delighted. Somehow the gesture reminded her of Anthony, but Charles had a reassuring air of solidity and command about him. She was not acquainted with men like Charles, not young men, anyway—he somehow reminded her of Al Leone—and she felt a little unsure of herself. The idiom of the cocktail party was out of place here.

“I'm sorry I annoyed you earlier this evening,” he was saying. “I wanted to apologize. I really wasn't referring to you in particular. I was just in a lousy mood, probably because I felt sort of out of place.”

This reassured her.

“Well, please don't let it bother you. I guess I am kind of young, as you said, reacting the way I did. But that isn't important. I care much more about the fact that I adore Twenty One and we're having crepe suzettes. That's delightful.”

“Say, Courtney, you have marvelous eyes.”

She sighed. “Yes, they're green. Green. It has been a point of contention all my life. They're green, they're unusually large, and I have never yet been out with a boy who didn't comment on them.”

He laughed. “You're great, you really are. I am stopped cold. You know, you must get awfully bored with the boys who were at the party tonight. I can see you're not one for cocktail party conversation.”

“As a matter of fact, I love cocktail parties. I never have to think. I never have to say anything I really mean, and I know that nothing I say can be held against me because nobody will remember it.”

“You have a good point there. You know, I'd like to see more of you. Could you give me your phone number? I'd like to call you, and take you out for a real dinner. We could just sit and talk, and you wouldn't have to say anything you really mean if you didn't want to. I promise, despite my forbidding air, to be content with bubbles of conversation.” He smiled.

Chapter 20

I
had a lovely time at the cocktail party,” Courtney said, stretching her arms above her in smugness and then folding her hands behind her head. “And afterwards I went with that charming boy to Twenty One, and we had crepes suzettes and brandy.”

“Philistines,” Anthony snorted. “Philistines. I'm glad I got you back before they corrupted you.”

He stood in front of the window a moment, holding aside the hotel drapes in an attempt to draw some relief from the oppressive midday heat. He turned to her, and she watched him from her front-row seat on the couch. He never turned just his head; his whole upper body turned when he shifted his attention, as though he were conscious of maintaining a sculptural balance of line.

“I've languished without you,” he said sadly. “An evening of wretchedness, pretending to listen to those deadly lawyers. And all the while you were enjoying yourself thoroughly, no doubt being made love to or something.”

“I like to watch you move,” Courtney said without concern at his petulance. “Come over here and sit beside me.”

He walked obediently to the couch. She ran her hand with proprietary ease along the narrow, sculptured line of his ribs and hips. He took her hand in his and studied her a moment.

“I come at your call, don't I?” he said. “I've really lost all my command. My art is being corrupted. I'm behaving like an
American
lover.”

“You certainly are,” Courtney smiled, “and I'm enjoying it thoroughly. You're getting jealous.”

He rose with studied grace, and leaned on the mantel, watching himself and the girl through the mirror.

“Where shall we have lunch?” he said abruptly. “At the Plaza?”

“I suppose so,” Courtney said without enthusiasm.

“Now look.” He walked over to her and took her hands, pulling her up. He stood slightly apart from her and regarded her steadily.

“I don't like you this morning,” he said levelly. “You don't amuse me. You're behaving very like a woman, which you haven't since that first evening. I'm afraid I am a little jealous, but that is no reason for you to hold my jealousy aloft like a laurel wreath, proclaiming your triumph. Shall I name you the single greatest error that women make in love affairs? After the first flush has faded from the lover's face, after they are no longer treated with the deference paid to the new conquest, they attempt to make him jealous, they play the coquette. Particularly American women, who can't bear the subordinate position they find themselves in.”

He put his hands on her shoulders, resting his thumbs against the softly modeled collarbone.

“They end up by spoiling everything,” he said softly. “They make a game of love, they corrupt it, and from that point on everything disintegrates.”

She watched him solemnly. He dropped his hands and turned away from her, as though it were easier to speak when he was not looking at her.

“Whenever I have found that happening to me, I have simply ended the affair. Right there. I refused to let it end in ugliness, on the decline, so to speak.” He turned slightly toward her. “So, my dear, you must be very careful. You must guard against your latent feminine wiles. That would be a costly indulgence.”

Courtney regarded him steadily, running her tongue between her lips for a moment.

“Do you think that you have so much control over me, that you are so desperately important to me? Do you think that I am so unsure of you? Just because you are my lover, you think you have the right to tell me what to do when no other human being can? You had better watch your step as well. You can't afford to lose me,” she said defiantly. “After knowing me you'd find yourself quite adrift, my darling Anthony, for all your masculine arrogance.”

He stood silent, in anger and surprise, and Courtney wondered idly if he were going to hit her. Suddenly he laughed, sincerely laughed, with no malice in the laughter.

“What's so amusing?” Courtney said levelly.

“Angel, you look so terribly Irish, a little Irish banty cock, ready to fight anyone.” Still smiling, he put his arms around her. She didn't move.

“Now, darling,” he said in that soft, low voice, “don't be angry with Tony.”

His face was solemn now, like a child who has suddenly realized that his teasing has made his mother angry, and is anxious to atone for it. He gently kissed her chin, still thrust out in defiance. She looked at his face, boyishly solemn. As suddenly as she had gotten angry, she smiled, and slowly put her arms around him. He picked her up easily, and looked down at the girl, resting in his arms. He kissed her cheek as he would a child's.

Suddenly the phone rang, insistingly, demandingly, in the adjoining bedroom.

“We won't answer it,” he said in a conspiratorial tone. She shook her head and smiled.

The phone still rang, harshly, jarring their mood and shattering it, dropping its crystal fragments to the floor in disarray.

“Damn,” Anthony said softly. He set her on her feet and she followed him into the bedroom.

“Janet, darling,” Anthony said. “How marvelous to hear from you.” Courtney looked at him sharply. “I know, I've been out of town for a couple of weeks, Jan. Courtney? Yes, she is here, as a matter of fact.” He handed Courtney the phone.

“Hi, Court,” Janet said, “your maid gave me this number. I'm awfully sorry to bother you, but something awful has happened. A real crisis.”

Anthony lit a cigarette and handed it to Courtney. She nodded. He went into the bathroom and she heard the shower running. Courtney grinned.

“ . . . so Pete and I didn't get out of the after-hours club until about six this morning,” Janet was saying. “I was kind of bombed when I got home and so was Pete, and there was Daddy, waiting up for me with his bourbon. He practically drove Pete out of the house, I thought he was going to slug Pete or something. Daddy was really out of his head. Well, the point of the whole thing is, I was just bombed enough to pack my clothes and pull out. Daddy was even threatening to put me into the hatch, and he could put me in a sanitarium if he wanted to, you know, I'm not twenty-one yet. So I'm at Pete's now, but his family is back and is mad at him because the house is a shambles, so I'm hung, I can't stay here. I wondered if I could stay with you for a couple of days. I really can't go home this time.”

Anthony was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, drying his body with a Turkish towel. Courtney watched him a moment. This would mean a curtailment of their seeing each other so constantly, because Courtney was determined not to hurt Janet by letting her know.

“Sure, Jan,” Courtney said finally. “I'll tell the maid, and you can come over about five. Mummy won't be through rehearsal until six, but I'll be home.”

Anthony looked at her sharply. She shrugged. “Thanks, sweetie,” Janet said. “I knew I could count on you. Give Anthony my love.”

Courtney hung up and turned hopelessly to Anthony. He sat down beside her on the bed and kissed her softly on the shoulder. She was hardly conscious of him. She reached across him and flicked the ash of her cigarette in the ash tray beside the bed. He sat up and sighed.

“Damn,” he repeated.

He handed her the ash tray.

“So Janet is moving in on you,” he said finally. “That will complicate things.”

“I know,” Courtney answered, grinding out the cigarette.

“Did that alcoholic father of hers finally throw her out?”

“I gathered it was a sort of mutual agreement,” Courtney said. “She says she's only coming for a couple of days, but I know Janet. Much as I love her, she plays the Man Who Came to Dinner whenever she stays with anyone. She has no consciousness of imposing on anyone, of overstaying her welcome. It's all a part of this conviction that the world owes her everything.”

“Courtney, I know how fond you are of Janet, and I know this ridiculous obsession you have about not letting her know we're having an affair. I know you feel you betrayed her somehow because our on-and-off affair ended the night she introduced you to me. I trust you realize it will be awfully hard to keep this from her when she is staying with you and realizes how much we see each other.”

“Well,” said Courtney, “I'll just have to do what I do with Mummy, and let her think I see you only every couple of weeks, and have fictitious beaux.”

“No, angel,” he said patiently. “Janet knows every one of the boys you tell your mother you go out with, because she introduced you to all of them. That won't work. You'll just have to kick her out after a little while and dispatch her to some other friend, or your kind deception will fail.”

“No,” said Courtney thoughtfully, “I can't do that. Jan has done too much for me, I just can't kick her out when she needs me. Besides, I'm very fond of her, and when she's in trouble, I want to help her. There's only one solution,” she said, turning to Anthony. “And that's to see less of you, darling, and maybe go to some of those cocktail parties with her, though I don't want to, to erase any suspicion.”

“Now, Courtney,” said Anthony, suddenly worried. “Don't be rash in your loyalty. I know you have a very great sense of responsibility, and I know how you hate to hurt anyone. Janet was half in love with me for a year or so, I know, but it was no grand passion. Neither of us bothered even to be faithful to the other.”

Courtney looked over at Anthony. “She wanted to marry you, you know. She told me that about a week after I got back into town, and she would talk about it often.”

“Oh, she didn't really,” Anthony smiled. “We would talk of marriage, but that is just one of the conventions of the love affair. I used to say that in a couple of years we would get married, but in the most offhand way. You know, ‘After you have your first husband and are broken in, we really must get married. We get along so well.' That sort of thing.”

“Nonetheless, angel, you meant something to her. Don't you see, all of Janet's friends habitually betray her. Her lovers laugh at her to other boys, her friends use her to get introductions and dates and, after their purpose is accomplished, take over her beaux and drop her. I want her to think she has one friend who is loyal; I want her to believe that, whether it's true or not. She introduced us, and I proceeded to take you from her, after an affair that had lasted through a year. I know how it would hurt her to think I followed the pattern, too, and cared that little about her.”

“A friend is that important to you,” Anthony said.

“Yes. Janet is. Janet needs my friendship.”

“You really think you want to see less of me,” Anthony said quietly, “and you really think you will be able to go through with it?”

“Darling, for a purpose that I am convinced is right, I can go through with almost anything. I don't want to. You know that, you know that what we have, the world that we create when we're with each other—well, you know that I'm almost afraid of seeing less of you. But for Janet, I'll do it. Not in any great altruistic sense, but because I'm never happy with myself when I compromise on something I know is right.” He studied her for a moment in silence.

“Angel.” She smiled and took his hand. “Only for a couple of weeks. Until her father calms down; it never takes longer than that. Then, when I know she can go home, when I've fulfilled my obligation—we'll see each other constantly again, and we'll make up for all the days we've missed. All right?”

“All right,” he smiled. “Let's get decent, darling, and get over to the Plaza.”

Janet moved in at five as she had promised, with two suitcases and a colossal hang-over. She took over Courtney's room, establishing herself in the other bed and putting her numerous cocktail dresses and her three evening gowns into Courtney's closet. In the top of the closet went all her collection of “acquired” purses, and Courtney's notebooks and assorted letters were summarily dispatched from their shelf and put on the floor of the hall closet. Janet called her home and instructed the maid to transfer her phone calls to Courtney's number. Then she sat down in the living room and announced to Courtney, “My tongue is hanging out for a drink. Hair of the dog and all.”

Consequently, Courtney fixed two Scotches on the rocks, although she had not the remotest desire for a drink. As she set the drink in front of Janet and sipped her own, Courtney resigned herself to the fact that, through her own decision, her life for the next two weeks would be tailored to Janet's.

“Daddy is getting really unbearable,” Janet was saying. “I don't know what the hell I'm going to do. This drink tastes good, ecstasy. I called Marshall from Pete's house—you remember Marshall, the boy I have this thing with, who wrote the letter . . .”

Courtney nodded and lit a weary cigarette.

“Anyhow, I called Marsh out at Newport and he said he'd be back in town in a few weeks and said I could stay in his apartment—his roommate is spending the summer in Connecticut. So I guess that's what I'll do when I leave here.”

Courtney looked up, startled. “Sweetie, don't do that, really—I'm no one to moralize, God knows,” she said. “But you would be an idiot to live with this guy, openly. That's very different from an affair. That means committing yourself to the affair, resigning yourself to it—announcing to society that this is what you want?”

“What's the difference? You're drawing a thin line.”

“Not thin at all, Jan. You know yourself. You know that once you start with something that hurts you, you go on with it, taking more and more important steps to hurt yourself. You sleep with a guy by inadvertence when you're bombed one night. Then you can't stop. Drinking the same way. You know what it's like. Once you live with this Marshall for a few weeks, that will be it. You'll leave him and go on to the next, anxious to show everybody your degeneration or something. You can't stop yourself once you take the next step, you know that.”