Chocolates for Breakfast Page 13

  Courtney went home to change and Janet went with her. Mrs. Farrell was pleased to see Janet. Despite Scaisbrooke’s insistence that Janet was a bad influence on Courtney, Sondra had always liked Janet. She admired the courage, however misdirected, that caused her to rebel against the school’s students and faculty, and she felt that Janet’s determined gaiety was good for Courtney, who tended to get so moody.

  After they changed they went back to Janet’s apartment and their dates picked them up. George was attractive, as Janet had promised. He was a sailing enthusiast, and was tanned from weekends spent in the Island on his boat. Courtney warmed to the evening. They had two drinks at the apartment—Courtney wanted Scotch, because she always felt that she could drink Scotch better than gin, but George said, “Really, Courtney—Scotch in the summertime? Like a weenie!”

  Courtney winced. She knew that “weenie” was Yale’s term of derision—applied to those who do not behave like Yalies—and this was enough for her. She followed George’s lead, and had a gin and tonic against her better judgment.

  The cocktail party was being held at the apartment of one of Janet’s friends, which the parents had vacated for the occasion. When they got there it was four o’clock, and the room was already almost full. Courtney was enchanted. All the boys were from Harvard, UVA or Yale, and somehow they all looked attractive and self-assured in their gray flannels and cord jackets. The girls, too, seemed to be in uniform. It was not that they wore the same clothes, but they wore the same expressions, and talked in the same staccato rhythm which Nick Russell once described as the “boarding-school speech impediment.”

  Courtney, being an attractive girl and a novelty, with her dark glasses and her air of Hollywood, was soon surrounded by the uniformed young men. She had a few more drinks, the room filled with people and cigarette smoke, and she began to talk more freely as the windows darkened and the lights were put on. Someone began to play the piano and a few couples danced absently. Some of the extra men gathered around the piano and sang. The party got gayer; girls were sitting on the gray flannel laps of their dates and other girl’s dates. When Courtney went to the bathroom she saw two boys passed out on a bed among the coats and jackets.

  When she returned, she was handed another drink and she began to hold court.

  “Of course,” she was saying, “Hollywood can become an awful drag after a while. You know, you get tired of the movie stars who can’t talk about anything but their last picture . . .” She felt a little odd. No, she wasn’t going to be ill, she simply couldn’t do that. She dismissed the sensation.

  George took his arm from her waist and called to one of the boys who was sitting by the window, engrossed in intense conversation with a girl who had lank blonde hair and was wearing a red dress and getting slightly tight.

  “Hey, Pete, it’s getting hot as hell in here, open that window.”

  Pete obliged and someone came around with more drinks.

  “ . . . and you just get starved for some good conversation, and some intelligent people, and there’s nothing to do but come back to New York,” Courtney continued.

  George was looking at her steadily. His eyes moved down her body. She knew the black cocktail dress she was wearing was well cut and fitted her very closely.

  “Well, you know,” another boy was saying, “sometimes I get the same feeling when I’m away from New York. I’ve never been in Hollywood, but even when I was in Europe last summer . . .”

  “You’re a very attractive girl,” George said softly as he put his arm around her. Courtney concentrated on what the other boy was saying, ignoring George as he kissed her forehead and then her neck.

  “You never realize how much you miss New York,” Courtney said to the boy, “until . . .” But some girl was talking to him now and he was listening to her, and it was somehow rather confusing the way there was nobody but George there. The other boys were still in their vicinity, but they were split into different groups. She concentrated on George, because she had that odd sensation as though she were falling asleep again. Through determination she was now facing him and his arm was no longer around her, but he was talking—something about his fraternity parties at Yale.

  “You would really enjoy them,” he was saying. “I’d love to have you come up there some time . . .”

  Courtney was concentrating very hard on what he was saying now, because she had waves of not feeling very well. It was awfully hot.

  “You know, I’m glad Janet found you for me, you’re really a game girl,” he was saying, and then he looked very surprised because as she stood there listening to him she was suddenly sick.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” she said, hardly able to believe that she had actually been sick. “Awfully sorry, really—”

  And he was rushing her into the bathroom, past the bedroom in which a girl had been added to the two boys passed out on the bed. There was somebody in the bathroom, a boy standing outside said.

  “This girl’s sick,” said George.

  “It’s really never happened to me before,” Courtney said dazedly. “Really, never in my life—”

  The girl had come out of the bathroom and Courtney was pushed in. She was abruptly ill again and then she felt all right. She splashed her face with cold water. Her black cocktail dress—oh, how ghastly.

  When she emerged George was standing outside and the girl who gave the party was there.

  “Are you all right?” the girl said.

  “Yes, I’m fine. I’m terribly sorry—only my dress—”

  “I’ll lend you one of mine,” she said, and Courtney was back in the bathroom changing her dress. It was a very pretty dress, and it fit her. At least there was that much luck.

  “That dress looks great on you, sweetie,” said George gallantly when she came out. “You should always wear a low-cut dress.”

  “I’m horribly embarrassed,” Courtney said. “Did anyone see me?”

  “No, they’re all too bombed to notice.”

  “It never happened before,” she said wonderingly.

  “Well, it’s hot out, and the room is kind of stuffy. It happens to everyone.” He grinned. “I’ll never forget the time when I was just out of Andover, and I was on a beach down in Florida. I was eighteen, and feeling terribly sophisticated, and I was talking to Mrs. Astor. She was a friend of Mother’s and I was trying to be awfully charming. It was awfully hot and I was drinking gin, and I knew I was going to be sick, so I simply said to Mrs. Astor, ‘Excuse me,’ and I turned around and barfed, and then went on talking. She pretended she never noticed, but I was mortified.”

  Courtney laughed. She felt all right now.

  “You have a glass of ice water, and then you can have another drink,” George said.

  Courtney felt like a fool, and she was sure that George would ignore her now because she had obviously acted like a kid. Instead he said, “You know, you’re real game. I think the party’s moving on to somebody’s apartment with a swimming pool. Would you be my date?”

  “I’d love to, George.” Courtney grinned. She was going to like Janet’s crew.

  Chapter 15

  The cocktail party broke up at four in the morning, so Courtney stayed overnight again with Janet. They woke up in the early afternoon and the maid protestingly gave them breakfast. Then they retired to Janet’s room. Courtney lay on the bed and looked through some of Janet’s photographs from Bermuda, and Janet sat at the dressing table and polished her nails.

  “Did you have fun at the party?” Janet said.

  “Yes, except for barfing. That was awfully embarrassing.”

  “Nobody noticed.”

  “I liked George. He was awfully nice about the whole thing.”

  “Yes, you seemed to get along.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  Janet got up and gingerly opened the closet door, careful not to smear her nails.

  “I thought so,” she grinned. “Last night I carefully hung my dress up, feeling very proud that I was sobe
r enough not to leave it on the floor. Only,” she added, “I hung it up inside out.”

  Courtney moved to the foot of the bed to observe this. She looked up at the top of the closet.

  “What a lot of purses you have,” she commented.

  “Yes,” Janet said. She looked at Courtney. “I—acquired them.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Janet sat at the dressing table and looked at herself in the mirror. She wiped a smudge of mascara from beneath her eye.

  “Well, you might say I stole them; I say I acquired them.”

  “Stole them?”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Janet said nonchalantly. “It was really awfully easy. Like the dress I wore last night. I acquired that from a store. Just wore it out.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of getting caught?”

  “Oh, I did once, by one store. A detective came up and took me by the arm, and led me into some manager’s office. He said since I was so young, he didn’t want to press charges. It was funny, I felt like a J.D. or something. I carried it off well, though. I told him I was under a psychiatrist’s care and had him call my psycho. Then they let me go after I gave back the dress. They never even contacted Daddy.”

  “You were lucky,” Courtney commented.

  Janet looked at the silver perfume bottles in front of her and the pair of long white gloves that she had left on the dressing table.

  “I guess so,” she said.

  “You get an allowance of over two hundred dollars a month. You could buy the clothes.”

  “I figure the stores have more money than I do,” said Janet.

  She pushed the bottles of perfume around, rearranging them like chessmen. Courtney lit a cigarette, and stared up at the ceiling. Janet picked up a small bottle of Sortilège, one of the token bottles that Billingsley sent over whenever she went into the Stork. She set it down again and took a silver flask. She shook it. It was almost empty. She picked up a bottle of obscure and expensive French perfume and the Sortilège, and poured them both into the silver flask.

  “What did you do that for?” said Courtney, who had been watching the operation with detached interest.

  “I get tired of the same perfumes.” She got up and handed the flask to Courtney.

  “Like it?” she asked.

  “Smells ghastly,” Courtney answered.

  Janet put the flask in the center of the table. Then she shoved it almost angrily behind the mirrored Kleenex container.

  “Oh, screw them all,” said Janet.

  “Who?” said Courtney.

  “I don’t know.” She turned to Courtney. “I’m bored,” she announced.

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “I don’t know.” She thought a moment. “Have a drink, I guess. Want one?”

  “I suppose so.”

  They roused themselves and went into the kitchen.

  “Maid’s out,” Janet observed. “She’s always going out on obscure errands. I think she has a lover.”

  “The elevator man?” Courtney inquired.

  “Probably someone’s butler. That sounds logical. A somewhat indigent butler, who works for an alcoholic couple. The son is dying of leukemia, and the parents are always in the bedroom, bombed. And the butler slips out, abandoning the dying son, to make mad love with Peggy under the El.”

  “Under the El.” Courtney thought a moment. “The rhythm of the trains makes them mad, like Spanish fly or something. And it’s all like a Bellows painting.”

  “Who?”

  “Bellows.”

  “Oh. And then the son dies,” Janet continued, “but nobody knows it for weeks because the parents are out of their head and the butler has taken Peggy to Coney Island in the heat of passion.”

  “Finally a window washer sees the body and it’s all in the Daily News,” said Courtney.

  “You want ice, don’t you?” asked Janet.

  “Mmm-hmm. I’ll get the Scotch.” She opened the cabinet. “Nothing but Scotch and gin in here,” she observed. “Where does your father keep his cache of bourbon?”

  “Locked up in his bedroom closet,” Janet said. She looked through the icebox. “Six full trays of ice,” she said. “Some roast beef from last night. Some impotent cucumbers. Cocktail onions. A dead salad. Hard-boiled eggs,” she said with pleasure. She took one from the bowl and peeled it. “Want one?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Here’s the ice,” Janet said with her mouth full. Courtney made the drinks and handed Janet one. The phone rang and Janet went in to answer it. Courtney followed her.

  “Oh, sweetie!” Janet exclaimed. “Pete, it’s great to hear from you.” She listened a moment. “Yes, I’d adore to,” she said. “I’ve got a friend with me from California, she’s staying with me. A really neat girl. Do you think you could get her a date?”

  Janet nodded to Courtney.

  “Oh, in about an hour. Thanks, sweetie, I really appreciate your getting the date. Bye-bye.”

  “Remember Pete? He was at the party last night. They’re all sitting around drinking beer at his apartment and they want us to come over.”

  “I’ll have to go home and change—”

  “Oh, that’s a drag. Wear a dress of mine.”

  “I’ll call Mummy.”

  “You’re always calling your mother.”

  “Well, she worries when I’m not home and she doesn’t hear from me.”

  “Thank God my parents don’t,” Janet said. “There are some advantages to having an alcoholic father and a psycho mother.”

  Courtney was provided with many dates by Janet, and stayed overnight with her often because her mother would not have tolerated the lateness of the hours she kept. Coming into the summer there were many cocktail parties. Those of the “crew” who stayed in New York to work during the heat met regularly in the evenings to commiserate with one another about the humidity and the injustice of having been kicked out of college and into the working world ahead of their time. Courtney learned that almost none of the boys in the group had been able to finish college, or, that if they were still in college, were on probation—usually for drinking. She enjoyed the closeness of the group, who seemed banded together in their rebellion against something—she could not yet ascertain what—and she enjoyed the quantity of liquor and the relaxed air of the impromptu parties. With them, she found a warmth that bordered on acceptance. The casual affection, the frequent passes, the drinking companionship—these things, for the time being, filled her need, and eased the solitude that had driven her to seek oblivion. Sometimes, when she lay in bed at night, she missed the love she had known with Barry. She had been so important to him. But she had many dates now, and she was seldom alone. That was better, much better, she reminded herself. She didn’t want another love affair, she didn’t want to hurt herself again. This life was good, this life would keep her from continuing in the self-destruction and escape. She was happier with herself this way. June passed quickly, in a haze of gin and grapefruit juice, and Janet gave Courtney a party on her seventeenth birthday.

  The party was large and loud—word had gotten around New York that Janet was giving a “Bad Actors’ Ball,” and all the “bad actors” in town showed up, anxious to defend their reputations for excessive drinking and rather easy morality. Somehow Janet and Courtney found themselves early the next morning in the apartment of two of the noblest drinkers. The two boys sat bravely with them until it became apparent both that the girls would not go to bed with them and had out-drunk them. They retired to the bedroom, promising Janet and Courtney that they would return in an hour and match them for drinks after they had had a nap.

  The girls sat in the living room and smoked cigarettes until they had used up all that they could find. At this moment of crisis, Courtney looked at her watch.

  “Seven fifteen,” she announced.

  “No more cigarettes,” Janet observed glumly.

  “No.” Courtney shook her head. “No more cigarettes.”

&nb
sp; “Boys still asleep,” said Janet.

  “Yes,” said Courtney. “Still asleep. Asleep for over an hour.”

  “Won’t wake up for ages.”

  “No. Passed out.”

  “Passed out,” Janet agreed.

  “More liquor still,” Courtney suggested.

  “No,” said Janet. “Shouldn’t have any more. Don’t want to get bombed.”

  “No,” said Courtney solemnly. “Don’t want to get bombed.”

  “Drank them under the table,” Janet said proudly.

  “Under the bed. Maybe on the bed.” She was puzzled.

  “Anyway, they’re passed out and we’re still sober.”

  “Sober as judges.” Courtney thought a moment. “Why are judges always sober, church mice always poor, and lords always drunk?”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “And horses always hungry.”

  “Let’s eat,” Janet said.

  “It’s Sunday,” Courtney said.

  “I’m still hungry. What does Sunday have to do with it?”

  “Church day,” Courtney said solemnly. “Nurses and maids and things getting up now and going to early Mass. Good drinking day, Sunday.”

  “Good day to make love.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” said Janet. “Everything is so sober on Sunday. People going to church. Eating big dinners in the Bronx.”

  “I see what you mean,” Courtney said thoughtfully. “That reminds me,” she said suddenly. “I’m hungry. Haven’t eaten since breakfast yesterday, at two. Mmm, I’m awfully hungry.”

  “Gotta eat,” said Janet. With that they both rose and went out the door.

  They wait to a drugstore which seemed to be populated with Irish policemen. They bought some cigarettes.

  “Cigarette tastes good,” said Courtney.

  “An enormous orange juice,” said Janet to the man behind the counter. “And a glass of milk. And black coffee now. And eggs. And toast, and bacon, I suppose. And a glass of water.”

  “I’ll have the same thing,” said Courtney.