The Dud Avocado - Elaine Dundy [85]
Thank God for that, I thought.
“We’ll all turn in early tonight,” he said. “We have to be up at eight, looking our best.”
But Missy got stubborn and dug in and refused to come.
“O.K.,” said Larry. “You keep McCarthy occupied on the beach tomorrow. Tell him we’ve gone to Biarritz to look at the Virgin on the Rock or something.”
Missy pouted, and said that sounded right mean to her. She said she thought the poor boy looked mighty peaked. And Larry said never mind, that we’d do him a lot more good getting somewhere ourselves first. Larry is really brilliant about this sort of thing. I see exactly what he means.
I’ve been thinking a lot about the film. I mean it really would be the most terrific break if I got discovered down here, wouldn’t it. Like Audrey Hepburn.
I’ve been wondering what sort of parts there are that I’d be right for. At the Club de Caveau that night I asked Stefan why they were shooting a picture about a Bullfighter in a French fishing village, and he told me not to worry my pretty little head about it. I got the feeling he didn’t know either. But that’s the whole point. Will they want me to be French or Spanish or English? French I hope. I think I look more French than anything else right now.
My hair has turned a very strange color. The sun’s been working on its original pink dye and it’s a kind of greenish yellow. But I don’t think it looks too bad, though. I have a gorgeous sun tan (I adore watching myself change color) and I’ve noticed that all the girls on the beach have had approximately the same thing happening to their hair.
But it would have to be modern French. I mean suppose it’s a costume picture? French girls in period movies would tend to have black hair, I feel. Or maybe they’re all going to be Spanish, because of the Bullfighter. I bought some carbon paper at the bookshop this evening and I can’t decide whether to rub it on my hair and become a brunette or just leave the old straw as it is. I wonder what the sun does to carbon-papered hair. I’d better not try.
Got another letter from Jim today. It’s awful. He says he misses me terribly, more than he ever imagined he would, and that it’s so unbearably lonely in his studio he’s going off to Florence. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to feel his pain. I must write to him. I must, must, must. I’ll write tomorrow. I’ll have something to tell him then and anyway I’m too tired now. The sun makes me so sleepy.
Up early tomorrow, glug, glug. Gosh, I’m getting so nervous and excited I bet I don’t sleep a wink anyway.
May 23
Thursday
We very nearly didn’t get to the village at all this morning. The Citroen had one of its coughing fits and we had to roll it all the day down the hill before it started. The offices of the Anglo-American-Franco-Spanish film company, I think it’s called Cherwell or maybe Starwell Productions, are in a broken-down warehouse on the wharf. Stefan came beaming down on us almost as soon as we got there, and Larry said, watching him approach, “Who does he think he’s kidding?” He was a sight all right. He looked like a Hollywood director out of a New Yorker cartoon; full-flowing foulard, red shirt and beret, the works except for riding boots and a megaphone. He was in high spirits, very pleased with himself, absolutely delighted to see us. We admired the color of his shirt and scarf and he admired the color