The Dud Avocado - Elaine Dundy [65]
“Oh, but you didn’t. I mean please don’t——”
“Well, luckily nothing happened, so it’s all turned out for the best.”
I slid down under the bedclothes and over to my other side. Larry’s reluctance—he just didn’t want me, that was the thing— that was the final piece in the emotional jigsaw of last night. That was what my feelings of shame and humiliation were all about—oh, brother.…
“I’ve got the most awful hangover, so that I don’t think I shall live unless I have some aspirin,” I groaned. “Could you please go over to the shelf by the basin and pour me out a couple of hundred?”
“Sure, honey.” In a thrice there was such a clatter and clash among the bottles I had to bite back a scream. Eventually he stood over me with a glass of water and two aspirin. I took the pills and fell back, closing my eyes. He finished dressing quickly and I felt him at the bed again, standing over me. I’ll just pretend to be asleep, I thought, then he’ll go away and I can forget about the whole thing.
He stood there for a long moment. I began breathing evenly. Another age went by: there was an itch on my leg that I simply had to scratch. I tried to combine it with a sort of sleeper’s stretch.
“Gorce,” he said softly.
Much unnecessary business, waking up slowly, stirring sleepily, blinking eyes, etc.
“Gorce?” A little louder.
“Oh. Are you still here?”
“I’m just leaving——”
“Then get out!” I exploded.
“Yes. Yes, I know. Well—thanks for—I mean—oh, you know— I’ll see you around, darling—good-by.…”
After he left I started to cry. Then I fell asleep again. At two o’clock I woke up, suddenly remembering I’d made a date with Judy’s Frenchman, the painter Claude Tonnard.
He took me to his studio, poured me out some perfectly ghastly tea and we looked at his paintings a while. Then, as if it was the only thing left to do, he made love to me.
The studio was dark and cold when I left. I felt experienced without feeling that I, personally, had been through anything. I’d really shocked myself, to tell you the truth. I was a long way from St. Louis. My past was receding a little too rapidly.
I got to the theater in time for the half-hour call.
There was a knock on my dressing room door. “Sally Jay?”
“Come in. Oh, it’s you.” It was Blair.
“Sally Jay, I’m sorry. Never again, I promise.”
“I forgive you.” We kissed.
“Still love me?”
“Oh, sure—till the next time.”
“Where’ve you been?” asked Blair. “You look as if you’ve just got out of bed.”
“I have. I just got out of the bed of some Frenchman.”
“Take it easy, Zelda. Scotty’s been dead for years.”
“Zop, zop.”
“Wonderful notice for you in the Trib. Here——” He put the paper on my table.
“Thanks. I’ve seen it.” I picked it up and read it again. I sighed. “So this is fame. I don’t feel it. I don’t feel anything. Where’re the photographers? Where’re the flowers? Oh, here’re some.” I looked at the card. They were from Teddy. Indefatigable. I dropped it back into the flowers. “What boots it in these miffless times——” I said.
Blair was already in the doorway. “What say?” He came back in.
“I said what boots it?”
“Well, whatever that is, it isn’t right. You’ve got it all screwed up.”
“You ain’t jest clicking your teeth,” I replied, and started to put my make-up on. But already I was feeling much better.
EIGHT
I DIDN’T SEE LARRY for a while. After a show opens it doesn’t belong to the director any more, it’s the stage manager’s baby, and Larry never came around. I wasn’t exactly happy, but—hmm, I don’t know—but, but, but I wasn’t absolutely unhappy either. I found that I liked acting and that, after those first few terrifying minutes each night before I went on stage, I was really enjoying myself. I even liked always having to be at the same place at the same time. I mean, the question actors most often get asked is how they can bear saying the same things over and over again night after night, but God knows the answer to that is, don’t we all anyway; might as well get paid for it.
So I jogged along. I took up with the Hard Core again. And I began posing for Jim.