The Dud Avocado - Elaine Dundy [109]
He sobered me up at the Royal Saint-Germain with aspirin and slow spoonfuls of onion soup.
“There’s a reason for all this,” I kept saying to him over and over again. But I’d forgotten it.
“You’re running away from some man, aren’t you?” Max asked me gently.
Yes, that was it, I thought fuzzily. I was running away from Larry and when he caught up with me he was going to beat me up and if I’d squealed he was going to kill me.
“I can’t tell you about it. I can’t tell you about.…”
“Never mind,” said Max. “I think I understand. I’d better take you back to your hotel so you can get some sleep.”
We got back to my hotel and the concierge said there was a message for me. I nearly fainted dead away. I had to read it three times before I could understand it. It was from Jim Breit. He’d heard I was back. Judy was in the hospital and wanted to see me. He’d pick me up at ten the next morning.
“You must think me the great neurotic of all time,” I said to Max, not really caring at this point. “But I can’t stay here tonight. You’ve got to find me another hotel.” Boy, when you’re really worried it’s first things first. You don’t let yourself get all bogged down with gentillesse and politesse and tout ça. One thing was clear, I wasn’t going to spend another night at that hotel waiting for Larry to catch up with me.
You apparently don’t need anything to get into a hotel in Paris except a passport. I was turned down five times. Eventually we found one so seedy it didn’t even have a reception desk. That suited me fine. The more hidden the better.
“I’ll be back in a month,” said Max. “I’ll send the photographs to be developed. Meanwhile, keep in touch with Stefan. I want to see you again. And—” he paused, embarrassed, “see here. I hope everything works out. But if you—if it’s a matter of money —if you should need any—tell Stefan and I’ll be glad to—that is, please don’t have any silly feelings about borrowing from me.”
My God, I thought dully as he left, he thinks I’m pregnant.
THREE
JIM PICKED ME up at my old hotel the next morning. I’d slept hardly at all that night and was reeling under the blow of a bad hangover. Jim looked exactly the same as he always did and this shocked and annoyed me. How could he be so callous after all I’d been through?
It wasn’t an easy meeting. I asked him how Judy was and he replied that I’d see for myself. We drove off in a strained silence. I made a few scattered remarks here and there that he didn’t even bother to answer, and then I opened my mouth a couple of times and just closed it again. Nothing seemed like a good idea. He was probably being tricky about that awful letter I’d written to him in Florence, I decided. Well, the hell with that. I had more important things to worry about. I’d just remembered that Uncle Roger would be writing me about my new passport down at the villa.
I made Jim stop at American Express while I sent off two telegrams—one to the post office nearest our villa, telling them to reroute all my mail to American Express Paris, and one to Uncle Roger giving him the same address. I felt a little safer, hiding under the anonymity of American Express.
They were waiting for us at the hospital. “It’s Miss Gorce, isn’t it?” they asked. “We’re expecting you.” Swiftly they led me into an elevator which stopped at Judy’s floor. I was already beginning to get uneasy. Flanked on either side by a doctor and a nurse, I was shown to Judy’s room. I felt myself walking faster and faster until I was almost running down the corridor.
Outside the door the doctor stopped me. “She’s very weak,” he said. “Keep her calm. Be careful not to tire her out but don’t frighten her either.”
I opened the door. Even before I could see Judy, who was blocked from my view by a screen, I was seized with a slimy terror. I had expected