The Dud Avocado - Elaine Dundy [14]
“Which one is Jim?” I asked.
“The rather short one with very blue eyes who has dimples when he smiles.”
“The one who’s so shy and polite?” She nodded. “I’ll be darned. He certainly doesn’t look like a painter, does he? Still that’s probably in his favor. What is he—G.I., Fulbright, Guggenheim, or Rockefeller?”
“I don’t think he has a grant,” she said. “I think he’s just here on his own.”
“That’s original, anyway. What are his paintings like?”
She thought this over for a moment, very seriously. “They’re good” she said finally. “I can’t describe them, but, you know,” she said suddenly, “I’d like to own one of them.”
That really impressed me. “By the way,” I said casually, “I’m going back to the stage. See?” And I held up my book of plays.
“Oh Sally Jay. Are you an actress? Why didn’t you tell me? How exciting. I’ll bet you’re perfectly marvelous. What have you been in on Broadway?”
“Well, nothing, really.” I had to admit that there was only that season in Summer Stock. Then I told her about my meeting Larry that morning, and how he was going to produce some one-act plays here. I had quite a time trying to answer all her and-then-what’s in describing what actually had taken place during our encounter. “So anyway,” I finished, pointing at the books, “I’ve got to get through all of these and practically memorize them by next week. I’m going to be in this damn thing or bust.”
My telephone rang and I jumped a mile. I thought it might be Teddy and I still hadn’t made up my mind quite what to do about him. Should I let him suspect things were not too well by the tone of my voice now, for instance, or spring it on him later as a surprise? It seemed a very hard thing even to pick up the receiver. I just didn’t want to answer it.
When I did, it wasn’t Teddy after all. It was the concierge who wanted to know if Miss Galache was there with me. Someone was waiting downstairs to see her.
“Oh heavens,” exclaimed Judy. “It’s Claude—Claude Tonnard. I’d completely forgotten about him. He’s a painter too, but French” We both giggled at the absurdity of knowing a Frenchman in France. “We’re going to have coffee at the Select. Please come along. You’ll like him. Honestly. And he doesn’t speak a word of English so he’ll be awfully good for your French, because you’ll probably want to act in French too, won’t you? Oh dear, I forgot all about my pills. Oh well, it doesn’t matter. I’ll take them later.”
“Judy, you must have them now.”
Judy had some mysterious ailment which she either didn’t know about, or wouldn’t talk about. She was extremely delicate, and she tired easily.
“All right, I’ll run up to my room and get them. But please come to the Select.”
“Nope, Absolutely not. I’ve got much too much work to do,” I assured her as she left.
I went to the window and looked out at the September evening. Though still hot with the vanished sun, the dusk, with its suggestion of autumn and nights drawing in, sent shivers of excitement up and down my spine. I thought of sex and sin; of my body and all the men in the world who would never sleep with it. I felt a vague, melancholy sensation running through me, not at all unpleasant. If I could only figure out if it was Larry I was in love with, or just love, then I’d be all set, I told myself. It had certainly seemed to be Larry that morning,