Chocolates for Breakfast (18 page)

Janet looked sharply at her.

“Look, Court, are you trying to give me a sermon or something?”

“No, Janet,” Courtney said wearily. “Never in my life have I lectured you or moralized to you—or anybody, for that matter. I haven't any right to, and I haven't any desire to.”

Courtney looked at Janet for a few minutes. How much older she looked than eighteen, how much more—well, tired she looked than she had any right to. Maybe it was just the hang-over.

“Jan,” Courtney said quietly, “do you remember when we were at Scaisbrooke? Remember when you broke so many rules and were warned that you would be campused for the rest of the year, I didn't say not to break the rules. I broke them, too, as much as you did, but I had an A in conduct because I got staff permits from my friends on the staff for being on the grounds at sunset when I used to like to walk on the hockey fields. I had illegal food, and I read after lights, but I was careful about breaking the rules. I broke every rule that inconvenienced me, but I never got caught. And I used to try to tell you, not to obey the rules, but to break them carefully, and not get penalties. To watch out for yourself.”

Janet nodded.

“You didn't pay much attention to me then,” Courtney continued. “You got kicked out anyway, because you wanted to, I guess. You probably won't pay any attention to me now. I still break all the rules, sweetie, all the rules that you break. But I don't get caught. Nobody knows about it because I keep my life to myself, or else entrust it to people who won't betray me. I don't hurt myself in front of society.”

“I don't give a good God damn about society,” Janet said angrily.

“The hell you don't! Look, eventually you want to marry some Yalie and have kids and all that. You know you do. You don't want to be frequenting the same bars in ten years that you frequent now, you don't want to be walking into the Stork and Twenty One and the Plaza with an escort a little more aged and probably a little less desirable than those you have now, knowing that if you're not gay, you'll be alone. That's not the life you want and you know it.”

Janet sat in silence, contemplating her drink.

“Look, Janet, don't go on destroying yourself. You're only eighteen. You still have grace, but there isn't much time of grace. There aren't many years which we are allowed to refer to as years of ‘youthful indiscretion' or whatever. People are too harsh, too ready to condemn. Don't live with this guy. That will be the beginning, and you know it, and then—”

Courtney stopped herself because Janet was looking away from her, with an expression that to anyone else would have looked like anger, but Courtney knew it wasn't.

“Sweetie,” Courtney said gently. “I'm only going out on a limb like this because you're really a good friend of mine, and I can't sit by and see you hurt yourself. I'm no one to talk in one sense; I'm no saint. But I think that gives me a reason to talk. You've got too much on the ball for this, you're too great a person.”

Janet, embarrassed, took a sip of her Scotch and lit a cigarette.

“It will be amusing as hell,” Janet said with a brittle brightness, “when I come out at Tuxedo this fall and I'm not living at home. You know, this is the thing Daddy has planned for since I was little, a kind of symbol that he gave me what he never had. It means so much to him, and I won't even be living at home when it finally happens. It's all paid for, too, and there isn't a thing he can do about it.”

Courtney sighed and took Janet's glass, in which the ice had melted. She freshened Janet's drink and made herself another.

“I should have known better,” Courtney said finally. “Somebody talked to me like that once, too—a guy out in California. It didn't do much good. I learned once that you can't stop a man from drinking. I guess it's the same way in this.”

“Your mother should be in soon,” Janet said.

“I guess so. It's close to six. She'll be home a little after.”

“Does she know I'm here?” Janet asked.

“I called her at rehearsal. She was delighted.”

“She really has been doing a lot on TV lately, hasn't she?”

“Yes,” said Courtney. “She has this summer soap-opera thing, and then she has some appearances on shows and so on. Nothing very much, but enough to have the maid. That's a real psychological boost to her, to be making enough to have the maid. Of course, she wouldn't be able to do it without Daddy's help, but it still is important to her.”

Courtney sat down and lit a cigarette.

“You know,” she said with a slight smile, “I really love to see the difference in Mummy when she's working. It's a funny thing, and hard for most people to understand. The actress is the only part of herself that she loves, the only thing that holds the pieces of her life together. When she isn't working, she just isn't a person. She feels she hasn't any right to show herself to society, so she's a recluse, the way she was out in Beverly Hills. But now, even though this TV bit is a real comedown for her, she's almost the way she used to be. Funny the way it works. Symbols of her acting success, like the maid, Marie, and the clothes she buys, make her feel she's a success as a person, almost—the way a devoted husband would reassure another woman, or something.”

“Marie is an awfully good maid,” Janet said. “Well-trained.”

“Mummy always spends a couple of days breaking in a new maid. The first thing she does is sit down and have the maid serve her, in mime, a full-course dinner. Then she sits the maid down and serves her. She's a real perfectionist about her maids.” Courtney grinned. “We had this wonderful German maid once, Gretchen. Gretchen worked for us for three years. Poor Gretchen. One night Mummy had this big dinner party, when we were in Scarsdale, and I was a little girl, and the dessert was a chocolate soufflé. The soufflé fell and Gretchen was fired on the spot.”

Janet laughed for the first time that evening.

“She fired the maid because the soufflé fell?”

“It was the
pièce de résistance
,” Courtney explained. “The great gesture. You have to understand Mummy, really it's quite a logical reaction—not excessive at all.”

A key turned in the lock and Courtney's mother swept into the room.

“We were just talking about you,” Courtney said, but her mother did not hear her.

“Janet darling!” Sondra said, rushing over to her as though Janet were, at that moment, the only person in the room. “Courtney told me what happened,” Sondra said in her low, dramatic voice, “and I was
so
glad that she asked you to stay with us.”

“A Scotch, Mummy?” Courtney broke in.

“Martini, darling. No show tonight,” she said, as though it were extraordinary that she should have an evening free. “Courtney, Marie knows that Janet is staying with us—”

“Yes, Mummy. Of course.”

“Good. We're having roast beef tonight. You like roast beef,” Sondra said to Janet. Janet nodded. “Courtney, darling,” Sondra exclaimed, “don't drown it in vermouth, for God's sake!”

“No, Mummy,” Courtney said patiently. “I make an excellent martini, you know.”

“I thought you had a date this evening, Courtney,” her mother said. “With that charming boy, the—”

“No,” Courtney broke in hastily. “I saw him for lunch. I haven't any date tonight.”

“Courtney has been having a mad social life,” her mother said to Janet.

“Oh, really?” Janet said. “You must have found new bars, Court.”

“Yes, I have,” Courtney said. “I get tired of the same places.”

Marie came in.

“Dinner is served, Mrs. Farrell.”

“Marie, I shall want another cocktail. I will be in in about fifteen minutes.”

Marie nodded. “Yes, Mrs. Farrell. I didn't mean to hurry you.”

Fortunately, her mother was soon off on the subject of herself, and her television work. Courtney breathed easily. Life was going to be a little difficult for the next two weeks, that much was obvious.

The phone rang, and Courtney rushed to answer it, thinking it might be Anthony.

“I'm not in,” her mother announced. “I refuse to be bothered with agents and business during the cocktail hour,” she explained to Janet. Courtney smiled to herself as she picked up the phone.

“Is Courtney in?” said a deep, self-assured voice.

“This is she.”

“Courtney, this is Charles Cunningham. I'm terribly sorry to call you at the last minute like this, but I called you from the office several times and you weren't in. I wondered if you were free this evening.”

“Well, I had—” Courtney looked toward the living room, where her mother and Janet were sitting “—as a matter of fact I am free this evening.”

“Wonderful! I was so afraid you wouldn't be. Could I pick you up around seven thirty then?”

“Yes, that would be fine. You have the address?”

“Of course I do! I'll look forward to seeing you, then.”

“Thanks for calling, Charles.”

Janet certainly was succeeding in screwing up her life, Courtney thought as she hung up. She had determined not to see Charles, but his coming in while Janet was there would be ideal. Janet seldom saw Charles, and this would be a convenient name to use when Courtney wanted to see Anthony. Well, his coming over this evening would be all that was needed—then maybe a couple of more times to reassure Janet, and the rest of the time she could see Anthony. Charles might turn out to be convenient.

“Jan, you did say you had a date tonight, didn't you?” Courtney said as she came out.

“Yes, with Pete. We're going to the Bird.”

“That's what I thought. Good, I won't be walking out on you then.”

“You have a date after all, darling?” her mother asked.

“Yes, Charles Cunningham. You remember him, don't you?”

“I'm afraid I don't,” her mother answered.

“I guess you've never met him somehow,” Courtney said. “That's odd.”

“Have you been going out with Charlie?” Janet asked.

“Yes, for quite a while now,” Courtney answered.

“We'd better go in to dinner,” her mother announced. “You may take your drinks in with you, children.”

Pete arrived first, and when Charles came, Janet suggested that they all go to the Stork. Courtney was delighted; she was determined that Charles should remain unimportant to her, and a double date made her feel less that she was betraying Anthony by seeing someone else and enjoying herself, as she knew she would.

“You know,” Charles said to her as Janet and Pete left the table for the dance floor, “I really didn't want to come here. I can't stand the place.”

“Why?” Courtney smiled. “Filled with children or something?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“This is a real obsession with you, isn't it?”

“No,” Charles frowned. “I'm just more interested by people who are doing things, who are out working and living. I enjoyed prep-school kids when I was in Andover, and college kids when I was in Yale. One simply progresses, you know,” he smiled.

“I adore the Bird,” Courtney said haughtily.

“You know you don't,” he grinned.

“Well, all right, I don't really, but your attitude annoys me. Tell me, haven't you any weaknesses, are you totally self-sufficient and impregnable?”

“People often ask me that. Of course I do,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “I just don't choose to display them, that's all.”

Janet and Pete returned, interrupting them.

“God,” Janet laughed, “that was a crazy number. Hey, what happened to my drink?”

“You finished it,” Pete smiled. “Here, take mine while I get you another.”

Charles looked up and studied Pete a moment.

“Double Scotch on the rocks,” Pete said to the waiter, “and a Scotch and water for me.”

With no change of expression, Charles lowered his eyes and flicked the ash off his cigarette. A noisy group of white-jacketed young men and their dates came in, and Janet looked up.

“Hey, Count,” she called. “Come on over.”

The Count looked up and headed to their table, detaching himself from the group.

“Hiya, sweetie,” Count said as he unsteadily dropped his arm around Janet's shoulders. “We've been at Our Club, but Third Avenue didn't appreciate us, so we came over here. Slugged some guy,” he explained, “and they threw us out. I was sitting over there getting horny, anyway.” He leaned down over Janet. “Hey, sweetie,” he grinned, “what about getting laid tonight?”

Janet laughed.

“Stop bird-dogging my date,” Pete said.

“Oh,” Count said, raising his eyebrows. “Possessive, aren't you?”

“Go to hell,” Pete said.

“Say, Count,” Charles said hastily, “what about a drink?”

“I'd love a drink,” Count said.

“What about it, Court?” said Charles. “Shall I buy Marcel a drink?”

“Sure,” Courtney said. “Buy the Count a drink. It can't make any difference.”

“Y'know,” the Count said proudly, “I was rejected by the army for cirrhosis? Funny as hell, the reaction that doctor had when I told him I was only twenty. Funny as hell.”

Courtney looked up at the Count, and studied his aristocratic features, the hair brushed back from his face in a European manner, except for a loose strand that escaped and fell on his forehead. He looked even younger than twenty.

“Count,” she said, “why do you drink so much, anyway?”

“Hell,” he shrugged. “I don't know. It's a comfortable way of life.” Then, as though suddenly becoming aware of the question, he turned angrily to Courtney. “What's the matter, you turning straight-arrow, too? You're with a goddamn moralist, you know. Cunningham. He's out of it. You're a pair.”