Chocolates for Breakfast Page 8

  Her mother should be home soon. They had gone to dinner and that was at seven. She had an idea. She went to the phone and called the liquor store.

  “This is Miss Farrell, at the Garden?”

  They would probably think it was her mother.

  “Yes, Miss Farrell.”

  “I’d like a bottle of Piper Heidseck, ’forty-seven.”

  That was what her father always bought.

  “Anything else, Miss Farrell?”

  “Some potato chips.”

  “Villa nine, isn’t it?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “We’ll send it right over.”

  She was pleased by the idea. Her mother would like coming home to find that Courtney had bought the champagne, and they would eat potato chips and wouldn’t have to go out in the rain. That would mean more to her mother than if they went out someplace. It was the kind of thing her father would have done.

  After the champagne came she decided against having another Bloody Mary, because she was a little afraid of the idea of sitting and drinking all by herself, so she had a cup of coffee and picked up a novel by Evelyn Waugh.

  When she heard her mother come in, she was pleased; and excited. The champagne was iced and the potato chips were in a bowl on the cocktail table. Everything was ready.

  When Courtney saw her mother as she opened the door, she knew something was wrong. Sondra looked older and tired as she always did when she was upset. Courtney could tell that she had been crying. Immediately she decided against the champagne. She took her mother’s coat.

  “May I get you a drink, Mummy?” That was all she said.

  “Yes, please, dear.”

  Courtney made a Scotch and water, putting in two full jiggers of Scotch and only enough water to disguise the liquor. Then she looked at the color and decided it was safe to put in another splash of Scotch. She muddled the drink with her fingers and sucked the finger, checked the color again and brought her mother the drink.

  Then she went back to the kitchen and made herself a Scotch on the rocks because her mother didn’t like to drink alone. She came back to the living room and sat down, not saying anything.

  “Courtney,” Sondra said finally.

  “Whom did he give the part to?” Courtney asked.

  “The studio is about to drop him. Because of those two flops, the ones that I was in—and the TV scare, it’s the same at every studio. So they gave him this one picture, with a very powerful book, as a final test. He can’t take another chance.”

  “Stop excusing him.”

  “No, really, Courtney. He needs a star with a big following, box-office insurance. He can’t take a chance.”

  “Did he give it to that bitch he’s been sleeping with?”

  “Courtney! Don’t say things like that!”

  “Well, did he?”

  “That doesn’t make any difference. The point is, I didn’t get it.”

  “The son of a bitch.”

  “Courtney,” she said, “Hollywood is a tough town. Nick said that to me when I came out here the first time. He was right. It’s a struggle for survival, and everyone must look out for himself. There’s no room for sentiment. You can’t ask a man whose own career is in jeopardy to destroy himself to help an actress who is hitting the skids.”

  “You’re not, Mummy!”

  “I can’t fool myself any longer,” she said wearily. “I didn’t tell you this before, because I thought I would get this part and everything would be all right. We’re in debt to the Garden for over a thousand dollars. We’ve got to move out.”

  Courtney didn’t say anything, because she didn’t want to upset her mother any more. Move out of the Garden! She wouldn’t see Al any more around the pool, she wouldn’t be able to swim and sun-bathe on the roof . . . there wouldn’t be any chance of her seeing Barry Cabot even at Schwab’s or on the street.

  “Where are we going to go, Mummy?”

  “There’s an apartment building on the outskirts of Beverly Hills that a girl of Al’s used to live in. He told me about it. It’s very cheap, and rather nice. We can get a studio apartment there. It’s near the Fox lot.”

  Near the Fox lot. On that great, cold, broad street with all the gas stations! How horrible.

  “When are we going,” Courtney said quietly.

  “Our week at the Garden ends this Wednesday.”

  “Wednesday.” Wednesday! Only two more days!

  “We’ll still be near Beverly Hills,” her mother said hurriedly, “near enough so that you can go to Beverly Hills High. And we won’t have to stay there long, only until I get some TV work, you know, there’s such a demand in TV, only I didn’t want to get committed before, thinking I’d be going into Nick’s picture, but now I’ll really look into it. I have some good connections with NBC, you know—”

  And she stopped short because she saw Courtney staring at her.

  “I promise you, darling. And as soon as we can we’ll move into a house in Beverly Hills, with a swimming pool—”

  “I don’t want to live in Beverly Hills,” Courtney said miserably. “I want to live right here.”

  And then she was sorry she said that.

  “Look, Courtney, we can’t live here. Don’t you think I’d like to, too? If it weren’t for you, with just a little television work I could have a room here by myself, but I brought you out here because you refused to go back to boarding school. Don’t make things harder for me than they are.”

  “I’m sorry, Mummy. Really.” That had been a childish thing to say. She should have thought before she said that. Of course her mother wanted to stay in the Garden.

  “May I fix you another drink?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  Courtney made her mother another drink and then excused herself.

  She knew she shouldn’t have gone to bed when her mother was upset; she knew she should have stayed with her. But she didn’t want to. She wanted to be by herself, to be in bed. She was sick of thinking of other people. She was terribly tired of assuming part of other people’s unhappiness. She wanted to nurse her own disappointment. She cried herself to sleep, leaving her mother alone in the living room.

  When she got up in the morning it was still raining, that miserable rain. She went into the kitchen and cooked herself a couple of eggs. When she got the eggs she shoved the bottle of champagne behind some milk, so her mother wouldn’t see it when she got up. She noted that the bottle of Scotch, new the night before, was nearly empty. She didn’t want to be around when her mother got up. A hangover added to everything else would be too much to face. It was already eleven o’clock. Some of the men in the Garden would be playing gin rummy in the room with the fireplace, but she didn’t want to go there and watch them play and feel like a nuisance.

  Then she knew where she would go. She would go to see Al. Only she would have to call him first, of course, because he might not be alone. It was still kind of early.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Al, this is Courtney Farrell.” She always gave her full name on the phone; she liked the sound of it.

  “Oh, hi, Court.”

  “I hope I didn’t wake you up—”

  “No, sweetie, I’ve been up about fifteen minutes.”

  “Oh, good. Al . . . I wondered if I could come by and talk to you.”

  “Sure, Court. Something wrong, baby?”

  “Not really. I just wanted to talk to somebody. I hope I’m not intruding or bothering you or anything.”

  “If you were, babe, I’d tell you. No, come on over and have some coffee while I have breakfast.”

  Al had an idea of what Courtney wanted to talk to him about. Yesterday the manager of the Garden had come to him and told him that Sondra would have to leave security or pay at least half of the bill before she left. Knowing that the Garden bill was not the only one that Sondra owed, Al had made the arrangements. That was yesterday, and Sondra was perfectly willing to leave security, sure that the arrangement would never
have to be put into practice.

  Courtney took her cup of coffee and put it on the table beside the couch. She set some pillows under her head and lay down.

  “Get to bed late?” said Al as he brought his breakfast in.

  “No,” Courtney said. “I’m just awfully tired, for some reason. I got to bed kind of early, but I could hardly get up this morning.”

  “Mmm. Rainy morning,” Al suggested. “Want some toast?”

  “No, thanks, I’m not very hungry.”

  “Al,” Courtney said suddenly, “we’ve got to move out of the Garden.”

  “I know, sweetie.”

  “Nick gave somebody else the part.”

  “The bastard. I knew he would. He’s that kind of a guy. I kind of think that’s one of the reasons your mother fell in love with him. She never did know how to handle kindness.”

  “No,” Courtney said, looking at Al. “She’s always been a little afraid of people who were kind to her, like Daddy. Al—what’s this place like that we’re moving to?”

  “Not bad, baby. Not bad at all for the money. A room with a couple of studio couches, and a legitimate kitchen. Of course, it’s no Garden of Allah, but you ought to be just as glad that you’re getting out of there. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you follow Cabot around. And when you go to confession you go down Havenhurst, so that you’ll pass his apartment house. Don’t think I miss that, sweetie, when I see you pass here. And you never eat breakfast in the second shift at Schwab’s any more, because you know he always eats at two. Everything here is in about a three-block area, so nobody misses a thing.”

  “Nobody who’s looking for it.”

  “Well, you’re knocking your brains out, kid, and making a fool of yourself. He doesn’t want to get involved with a young girl. And if he did go out with you, it would be for only one thing. That’s no good. I admit I looked at you that way, too—once. But then I realized that you were just a kid. That’s what Cabot realizes, and you ought to be glad.”

  “Well, I’m not glad, Al. Honestly, I get so lonely sometimes. And now we’re going to move out by Beverly Hills, and I’ll never see anybody but Mummy.”

  “You’ll be starting school pretty soon, and you’ll have dates and friends your own age.”

  “No, I won’t, Al,” she said soberly. “You don’t know what it was like at school. I don’t have anything in common with people my own age. I had one real friend at school, my roommate. For all the years I was at Scaisbrooke, only one friendship grew out of it. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Al, why I don’t fit in. But it’s no use telling myself that when I move to a new school I’ll suddenly have a group of friends, because all I have to do is look at the record.”

  Al shook his head.

  “Crazy mixed-up kid. In a few years you’ll find some guy, and you won’t be lonely any more. There’s a helluva potential there, and some guy is gonna see it.”

  “Yes, in a few years. The rest of the time I just go on like this. And, Al, I’m frightened. I don’t know if you’ll understand this, but this morning I couldn’t get up, even though I’d had a lot of sleep. And last night I just wanted to get to bed, even though I wasn’t really sleepy. It was an effort for me to walk over here, as though I’d had about three hours’ sleep. That hasn’t happened since I left Scaisbrooke, and it means something is wrong. Something is happening to me, and I don’t understand it, and it frightens me because I can’t control it.”

  Al didn’t understand what Courtney meant, but he understood when she suddenly rushed to him like a small child and buried her head in his chest.

  “I’m afraid of it, Al,” she said, her words muffled. “And I’m afraid of being so alone with it.”

  He ran his hand gently through her hair, mussing it as he would a child’s.

  “What you need, kid, is a couple of parents. Even one would do.”

  “I have one, Al. But I won’t let her be a parent. She wants to be. But I won’t tell her the things that are bothering me, the way I’ll tell you. I feel kind of—well, protected—with you, because you’re a man and I just feel resentful with her, because she’s Mummy and she’s a woman. Does that make any sense?”

  “Sure it makes sense, sweetie. But you won’t find what you want with Barry Cabot, because he’s not man enough. Don’t deposit your need there, because you’ll only get hurt.”

  “But Al, I don’t plan to—”

  “Now listen to what I say, baby doll, because I know you damned well. I’ve known you since your mother first came out here and I took her account, and that was five years ago. I’ve seen you grow from a skinny, frightened kid to a real attractive young woman—still frightened. And I can tell you what you’re going to do better than you can tell yourself. So all I can do is warn you, the way I did last spring, to stay away from Barry Cabot, to forget about him. Things happen to a woman when she wants a man, and follows him around, and is rejected. He becomes more important to her than he has any right to be.”

  He looked down at the girl, her head buried in his chest.

  “But we’ll be leaving here. So I won’t see Barry.”

  Al smiled.

  “I said I know you pretty well, Court. What you want, you get. Remember what I told you.” He ran his hand fondly along her neck. “Though you won’t pay any attention to me, you crazy kid.”

  Chapter 9

  Beverly Hills High School looked as though it were designed for a Technicolor musical comedy. The front grounds were spacious and terraced, there were many sterile, carefully balanced buildings, including a gymnasium whose floor rolled back to reveal a large swimming pool. As Courtney sat in the November sun on the carefully cut lawn, she thought a little wistfully of Scaisbrooke, whose hockey fields had been trimmed for over half a century by a herd of goats, owned by the Italian groundskeeper. While the team played on the fields, the goats would graze quietly in the tall grass behind the field. The power mower was used only occasionally as a supplement. She thought of her favorite places, the rabbit’s burrow in an overgrown corner of the quadrangle, and the cracked marble bench in the boxwoods. There could be no special, private places at this school; it was too carefully planned, too recently man-made.

  For the first two weeks Courtney ate her lunch in the cafeteria, but then she gathered that the élite brought their lunches and ate them on the lawn. She was eating on the lawn among the school é1ite, the football players and the sons and daughters of men prominent in the Industry, and she was terribly alone. She knew a few of them by name and face, and she knew whose father was the head of what studio, and whose most recent stepmother was that rather notorious actress, but none of them knew her. Soon after she arrived, she established herself as a “brain,” which was the way she began at every school. They also knew, from her accent, that she had gone to Eastern private schools. These two things were enough to exclude her from their society.

  She wished that the school day would end, so that she could go home. Home! That awful little room where her mother sat all day and waited for phone calls that never came. But she wished the day would end, anyway. She was terribly, terribly tired, and she wanted to take a nap or something. She had never been as exhausted as she was now, as she had been ever since she entered Beverly. She hesitated to call the school by that familiar name.

  She didn’t know how she would get through the next two hours. Not that the classes made any demands on her; Scaisbrooke was too far ahead of even the best public school. It was just that she hated it so, and she was so tired. At least the next class was a study hall, so she could sleep. That would be good; then maybe she could stay alert through French. French class was a bore; she had read more demanding books in her second-form year. The fact that the teacher realized that didn’t make the class any more enjoyable for Courtney, who had the secret—and justified—conviction that her accent was better than the instructor’s. An American teaching French! She had never heard of that.

  She took the bus home. Ordinarily she
would have walked; it was less than a mile, but she knew she would be too tired if she tried to walk. When she passed the Fox lot and came to the apartment building, low and floral, with little plants on the terraces, she looked up at their door, indistinguishable from the others. She knew she would go in the door, set down her books, greet her mother—carefully avoiding asking if she had had any calls from her agent—and lie on the bed until her mother made dinner. They had eggs or lettuce-and-tomato salads for dinner, which was all right with Courtney, because she never was very hungry these days.

  Then she knew that she would not go home today. She would not go home and sleep. She knew, somehow, that it was very wrong for her to sleep so much. There was something immoral about it, like eating or drinking too much. Today she would fight it. She had a dollar in her pocket. She would take the bus and go down to Hollywood, and maybe she would have a cup of coffee in Schwab’s. She knew her mother didn’t want her to go to Schwab’s, or even be in that neighborhood, because people would ask her what had happened to Sondra, where she was living and what she was doing. But Courtney would find something to say to them. She had to see people, people that she knew. She had to talk to somebody or she would sleep again. She put her schoolbooks at a corner of the building and turned back to the road.

  When she walked into Schwab’s she was suddenly a little afraid. Barry Cabot was there. She knew that he would be, and she knew that that was one of the reasons she had come down here. She wanted to see him; she had wanted to see him for almost two months, two months spent in awful solitude. But she had lain in bed so many nights and thought of seeing him, and had built little pictures of his talking to her, warmly, and even of his kissing her. In her total abstinence from contact with any individual but her mother, a situation almost impossible for Courtney to endure, she had built her brief contact with this young man into a fantasy which pervaded her solitary hours.