The Dud Avocado - Elaine Dundy [15]
When I got to the Select, I saw that the Hard Core, already assembled, were, as usual, surrounding the Ancient and hanging on to his every obscenity. I picked out Judy’s “good” painter, wedged in between the two Beards, and smiled at him encouragingly, noting as he dimpled back, what a pleasant-looking boy he was. The vague nymphomania I had experienced at the window returned. What an awful lot of possible people there seemed to be around all of a sudden. All on the same day, too. I told myself that this must be part of some pathetic fallacy, whereby if you fall in love with one man, all men instantly become desirable, whether they actually are or not. But as soon as I laid eyes on the Frenchman with Judy, I realized how ridiculous this was. I didn’t need any pathetic fallacy to tell me that taken all in all—age, weight, shape and color, this was really le jacque pot! It isn’t often that one sees so pure a type of Ladies’ Man, so distilled an essence of temptation. I imagined every woman for tables around going mad with desire.
Only Judy, plying him with questions about which art gallery would be the best for a young artist to exhibit in, seemed unaffected. What amused me most was the expression of grave respect sitting so awkwardly upon his features, as he listened to her. It’s amazing how right you can sometimes be about a person you don’t know; it’s only the people you do know who confuse you. I had guessed at once that this wasn’t his everyday expression, and sure enough, as I approached, I saw it relax slowly into an entirely different one. Close up he was even more devastating. The eyes, smoldering lazily under their bushy, beetling brows, almost seemed to be lying down, while the magnificent head leaned forward, not eagerly exactly, but alertly. My heart raced. If he wasn’t unaware of his power, he certainly wasn’t bored by it either. He looked carefully at me. I-feel-as-if-we-have-already-so-why-waste-time? the look stated unequivocally.
Unexpectedly, I felt my interest drop. There was something about this that rather bored me. Something harrowingly familiar about him. I sat down rather shaken, all sorts of things rattling along the corridors of my mind.
“Mademoiselle Galache is doing me the honor of seeing my paintings tomorrow,” he said in French. “Perhaps you would care to join her, Mademoiselle.…” He turned to Judy. “Excuse me, but I don’t believe I heard your friend’s name.” So we were introduced again. I didn’t blame him. What with all that had been going on between us, I hadn’t been aware of our being introduced either. I mean, how many things can you concentrate on at once anyway?
“Oh Sally Jay, do come. Please,” said Judy.
I sighed. “I’d like to very much, but I’m afraid I can’t. I’ll be too busy.”
“Alors vous prenez du thé chez moi le jour prochain. C’est dimanche,” he said promptly.
I considered. That he meant tea to be just us deux and chez lui, was painfully clear. On the other hand, it was also true that he spoke no English at all, and that, what with one thing and another, would be mighty good for my French. He possessed such ravishing good looks—the stylized good looks of the hero on a French cinema poster, true, but ravishing quand meme. No. I must get off this sex kick, I thought, or I’ll be turning into some sort of maniac. “Pushover, Gorce. Pushover is the word” the grinning ghost of Larry snickered in my ear.
Turning to the Frenchman and disciplining myself, I said no, that it wasn’t possible. I said it firmly, and I explained that I had only a very short time in which to study for some roles that I wished to audition.
I could see he wasn’t used to being refused anything and that