Chocolates for Breakfast (13 page)

When she got off the plane in Hollywood it was warm, and the palm trees and the bright, blue sky made the airport look unreal to her, so soon after she had left the rusty field and the thin winter sun. As she walked across the airfield she still held the pussy willow in her hand, vestige of a world that was real. Even when they got into the car she did not let go of it. Finally, on the long drive from the airport to Hollywood, she fell asleep on her mother's shoulder and the pussy willow dropped to the floor.

She was silent and thoughtful in the soft morning sunlight, fingering the bud and remembering. It was Janet who finally broke the stillness.

“You know,” she said, “it's funny, the different times I've come here, to this lake.” She had been remembering, too. “When I was little my governess used to take me here to play with the other little children. And when I was in elementary school we used to be taken on walks past the obelisk and the teacher would tell us how it was brought from Egypt. And last year a friend of mine and I used to come here from school on our lunch hour with a bottle of Scotch, and go back to history class slightly bombed, because it was such a bore.” She threw a stick into the water and watched it float away. “I wonder what the lake thinks of me, watching me grow up. I wonder what it would say to me this morning if it could talk.”

“It must be nice,” Courtney mused, “to spend most of your life in the same place, and have associations with physical things like lakes and buildings. And go out with boys you've grown up with, that you used to play with in Central Park.”

“Yes,” Janet said, “it is nice. That's how I know most of the boys I go out with. It's too bad you didn't grow up in New York, so you could have a group like that.”

“I really appreciate the way you've introduced me to so many boys,” Courtney said. “I'd have gone out of my head this summer if it hadn't been for you.”

“Well, sweetie,” said Janet, “you're about my only good friend, and I couldn't just sit around and let you be lonely. I always said, even in Scaisbrooke, that what you needed was to go out more.” She picked a thistle from her cocktail dress. “You know,” she went on, “that reminds me. There's this boy I know—he's not one of the crew, he's a very unusual person. Awfully charming, and very intelligent—rich, too; he doesn't even bother to work—and I was telling him about you. He keeps saying he wants to meet you.”

“Is that the boy you told me about, the one who owns that island off Florida and the villa on the Riviera?”

“Yes, that's the one. Well, I was thinking, those boys won't wake up until just about the time they pick us up for the deb party tonight, which will be around ten. So what about going by the Pierre, where he stays, and meeting him? We could have a drink with him and our dates could meet us downstairs at the bar.”

“Well, that sounds great, sweetie.”

“I really think you two will get along—I'm afraid. But he insists on meeting you”—she grinned—“so I really have no way of keeping him to myself. But prepare yourself,” she added. She threw a pebble into the lake and watched the circles grow. “He's really a madman, so be prepared for anything.” She smiled to herself. “I really couldn't describe him to you.”

Chapter 16

M
r. Anthony Neville was fortunately to be found at home that evening, at his suite in the Pierre. When he opened the door, Courtney understood immediately why Janet had said with a smile, “I really couldn't describe him to you.” He stood at the door, a pale young man in his early twenties, with delicate features, an abundance of black hair, and challenging, brooding dark eyes. He was wearing a white terry-cloth robe, and in his left hand he held absently a single long-stemmed rose. He bowed deeply and theatrically to the two girls.

“Anthony darling,” Janet said. “Isn't this a new pose?” She smiled. “And didn't Oscar Wilde use a sunflower?”

Anthony ignored her, his expression unchanged.

“This, of course, is Courtney. How marvelous of Janet to bring you to me. Courtney's enchanting,” he said to Janet, who had walked past him and was taking off her coat.

Courtney, who was accustomed to the staccato Ivy League speech of Janet's friends, was surprised by the quiet languor of the young man's voice. His speech seemed, like the red rose, cultivated to defy categorization. He took her coat.

“Anthony,” Janet said abruptly, “we can't stay long. Our dates are meeting us downstairs to take us on to a deb party.”

Janet's matter-of-fact voice temporarily dispelled the aura of eccentricity which the young man had cast upon the room.

“Here,” he said, walking to the oversized bed, “lie down.”

He cleared a silver tray with two wine glasses from the bed and sat on the window sill.

“Wretched heat,” he commented, opening the window. “I've been lying here pretending I was on the Island, and feeling terribly Byronesque.” He set the rose upon the tray. He didn't bother to explain the second wine glass. “Do you know,” he said suddenly, “Byron watched from a carriage while they burned Shelley on the Beach at Via Reggio. Royal Road. I like that. And watching from a carriage until stench and grief overwhelmed him, and he left. That appeals to me. Such a death makes burials seem terribly prosaic.”

“Anthony,” said Janet, “my tongue is hanging out for a drink.” She straightened her evening dress beneath her on the bed. “I'm hung over as hell.”

Anthony sighed and walked over to the telephone.

“Two Chivas Regals on the rocks,” he ordered. He looked over at Courtney. “Scotch?” he asked. She nodded. “Make that four. And a half bottle of Pommard. André knows what I want. Mr. Neville.” He hung up and sat on the bed beside Janet.

“Jan,” he said, “you're heaven. We really should see each other more often. Why do you insist upon going to that deadly deb party?”

He rested his hand on Janet's hip. Courtney looked uncomfortably at a print on the opposite wall.

“I asked you to a party last week,” he continued, “but you never showed up.” He stared nostalgically at the tray of wine glasses. “It was a marvelous party,” he said wistfully. “Hordes of girls naked above the waist, and mass fornication.”

Courtney looked sharply at him. He pretended not to notice.

“You really should come to one of my parties,” he said with a slight smile which was his only recognition of Courtney's stare. “Courtney should come, too.” He looked over at her. “Irish girls have such lovely skin,” he said. “You look so terribly Irish,” he said to her. “Those enchanting green eyes.” He turned to Janet. “You're marvelous to bring Courtney. I'm sure we shall get on famously. She sits there so silently.” He leaned toward Janet with a conspiratorial air. “Do you suppose,” he said to Janet, “that your friend is shocked by me?”

Courtney smiled uneasily.

“No, not at all. No,” she said.

Anthony sighed. “What a pity. I do so love to shock people.”

He rose and sat again on the window sill, leaning moodily against a corner of the window.

“I've been writing a story,” he announced. “It's about two lesbians who are married by a homosexual priest—” He paused and looked at Courtney. “You're Catholic, of course.” She nodded. “—by a homosexual priest in a terribly floral ceremony in Switzerland. Up to this point they have been living quite happily in sin, but now their idyll has been destroyed. One of the lesbians develops a pathological jealousy of the priest . . .”

What am I doing here, Courtney thought, listening to him. Why does he assume he can say these things to me. But I mustn't seem to be shocked. It would seem so childish to be shocked, and I mustn't let him realize that I am that young, that I know so little.

“Of course,” he was saying, “the priest is defrocked, and is wretched because—”

Courtney studied him, leaning languorously against the window in a careful pose. He had an arresting face. He might have been an actor. He might have been a great many things. She wondered what he was. Janet had talked about him while they were on their way to his hotel. He was legendary among her friends. They played at dissipation, theirs was a child's game. His was not. Courtney glanced quickly at Janet, who was enjoying his story. He had been her lover, this extraordinary young man who was a symbol of decadence even to Janet's friends, a young man whom every one knew of and no one knew. And yet he had asked to meet
her
, he had asked Janet to bring her to him.

“And the lesbians go to live”—he smiled reflectively—“in Denmark.” He broke his pose and stood before them, pleased with himself. He looked triumphantly at Courtney. “Did you like it?”

“It's ridiculous,” she said defiantly. “Wallowing in childish perversion.”

“Oh,” he said, offended. “You feel perversion is childish.”

“No,” Courtney said with a studied nonchalance. “But your idea of it is.”

“My dear girl,” he said patiently, “I have been accused for years of being homosexual. Actually,” he said, rearranging a fold of his robe, “homosexuality bored me. But I am by no means a child when it comes to perversion.”

Courtney was spared further comment by a knock at the door. He answered it and took the tray from the boy. Courtney watched him. They were playing a game now, a game of sophistication, and she must hold her own. She was a little frightened, but she could not let anyone know that. She could have backed out by letting him know that she felt like a child beside him. The stakes were high, she sensed that without knowing why. She knew so little, and this decadent world of his was a dangerous one. Yet somehow it was a point of honor not to withdraw. She scorned herself for feeling afraid. So she couldn't handle this after all, she was still a child. No. No, she couldn't admit that. This was her world, a world she wanted without knowing why. Janet excused herself as he set down the tray, and as the bathroom door closed Courtney remembered what Janet had said to her as they got out of the elevator. “Don't be surprised by anything he says or does,” she had said. She must remember that. He looked at the closed door and then at Courtney, and lay beside her on the bed.

“I like you,” he said quietly. “You're rather of a challenge, lying there so silent and so voluptuous.”

He rested his hand easily on her breast, and his breath was warm against her ear. My God, she thought, and she was frightened as the emotion she could not control built up inside her, as she felt his challenge and answered it without being able to do anything about it. She felt so helpless, at the mercy of his sophistication and her own body.

“Why do you insist” he murmured, “on going to the foolish deb party? Stay here and go to bed with me instead. I know you want to, darling. As much as I want it.”

Desperately, she tried to rise out of herself. Why isn't there a little door, she thought, that closes on our emotions when we can't close them off ourselves, a little door of morality? Suddenly she thought of Janet who would come out in a moment. Thank God, she thought, and in remembering Janet she was able to rise out of herself.

“No,” she said. “Our dates are meeting us.”

He was annoyed. “Why didn't you come earlier?”

“We were out all night last night,” she explained. He was looking very steadily at her. “My birthday,” she added.

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“Seventeen. My God.”

“And we fell asleep around ten this morning,” Courtney continued. “The maid didn't wake us until seven, and we had to eat. We were hung, you see. That's why we had to eat, to feel better.”

“When are your dates meeting you?” he said. She could feel that he had withdrawn from her. It was not so tense now, and she was glad.

“In about fifteen minutes. At nine thirty.”

“They're”—he spat out the word—“
Yalies
, I assume. Most of Janet's friend are.”

“Yes,” she said. “Ex-Yalies.”

“Very well, then.” He rose, petulant. “Go on, then. Leave me here to seek lesser forms of amusement. I hope I have gotten you”—he paused and looked at her—“so that you will lay your little Yalie in the woods somewhere.”

So I have won this round, Courtney thought. I refused him and he is not used to being refused. She was pleased with herself. She had met the challenge and won; she did not need to be afraid of him now. Janet came out and quickly surveyed the situation. Courtney was lying on the bed, the white skirts of her evening dress spread out around her. Anthony was pouring himself another glass of wine. Janet was pleased. She went over to him.

“Anthony, darling,” she said with an air of triumphant possession, “I'm awfully sorry that we have to go so soon.”

“So am I,” he said wryly. He put his arms around her and kissed her on the neck. Courtney got up and put on her long white gloves. He walked over to her, and held out his arms.

“Good night, angel.”

He kissed her lightly and softly on the mouth.

“Toy kiss,” he murmured, looking steadily and appraisingly at her. “Before you go,” he continued, “I want your address. It has been many years since I asked for a girl's address and phone number,” he informed her. He looked at Janet for corroboration. She watched them silently. Courtney took a piece of paper from her evening bag and wrote her phone number for him. He wrote her name above it. He looked at her suddenly.

“Where did an Irish girl get a name like Courtney?”

“My parents read it in a magazine serial,” Courtney said drily.

“Yes, I do like you,” he said, putting the paper into the pocket of his white robe.

“Now, sweetie,” Janet said with a smile, “don't fall in love with Courtney.”

“Jan,” he said softly. He walked over to her and put his hand on her shoulder. “Promise me one thing—that you will never, never get jealous. Because if you do, it will be all over between us.” He turned to Courtney. “Janet is the most marvelous girl,” he said. “Never jealous or possessive. That's why I love her.”

Their dates had been waiting only a short time in the bar, but long enough for them to have a drink to ease their hangovers. They were in high spirits as they drove out to Long Island. Courtney was in the back seat and her date, Eric, put his arm around her.

“Did you have a good time last night?” he asked.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Sorry we faked out,” he said. “You drank us under the table.”

“Yes, we certainly did,” Courtney smiled.

“That won't happen tonight,” he assured her. “We'll match you for drinks, since they're free.”

“Hey, Eric,” said Janet's date, “do you think we'll be able to get in?”

“Sure,” Eric assured him. “This will be a real blast, Pete. They'll never be able to check at the door. I could name you ten other people who are going to crash this party, and I know there are a lot more.”

“I met the girl who's giving it,” Janet said. “There are two of them, and I met one of them a couple of weeks ago at one of those teas.”

“Hell,” said Eric, “the girls who are giving this won't know half of their guests anyway. It's one of those pre-Tuxedo Park things where they just ran down a list of approved guests, chosen because they could drink well and their fathers were giving them big parties during the Christmas season.”

“It's all such a farce,” Pete said in a bored tone. “Coming out. A real farce. What the hell do girls come out to nowadays that they haven't known since they were fourteen?”

“Well, it's free liquor,” said Janet. “And the more people you can invite, the more parties they have to invite you to later on.”

Courtney wasn't listening as the white-jacketed Yalies talked in bored, staccato voices. Everything that they were saying she had heard before. Debutante parties were a farce. Drinking was the finest of all institutions, second, of course, to that other. Any man worth his liquor was kicked out of Yale within two years, otherwise he was sure to graduate to a very mediocre career on the stock exchange. These were the axioms which provided conversation as they drove through Long Island to crash a major debutante party of the summer season. Courtney knew the dialogue by heart. She had learned the language in boarding school, and she had needed only a few weeks to learn the idioms. She now spoke the dialect like a native, and was therefore freed from listening to it. She thought instead of the extraordinary young man she had just met.

Anthony Neville had succeeded in being the first man who had ever overwhelmed her. She couldn't even know if she liked him, but she was fascinated by him. Beside him they all looked like dilettantes at this game of love-making and dissipation, at this game they all must somehow play. She was a little afraid of him, afraid that he might draw her into his world, whatever that world might be. She somehow didn't trust herself with him. Courtney was glad that she was not alone tonight. This, at least, was a world she knew and which she could handle. How sane and reassuringly conventional the country club looked as they drove up to it. She would forget Anthony for the evening. He probably would never call her anyway. He knew how young she was.