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Authors: Olivia Goldsmith
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once. Bemelman’s. Elise jerked her shoulders, sending a searing pain through her eye and up to her forehead. She groaned with pain, and with the shame of the memory.
Oh, God.
It hadn’t been the first time one of those little filmies had recognized and complimented her. And she was always gracious.
Gracious but not familiar, just as her mother had directed her. She smiled, thanked them, but never stooped to autographing or picture-taking. Not until yesterday. She groaned again. Oh, God, oh, God. It was coming back more clearly.
Tall, thin, wearing that costume of jeans and tweed jacket that young men seemed to prefer, rather like the black pullovers that Gerard and their friends had favored back in the early sixties. What had they talked about? Her films, the good ones. Yes, he had understood about them. About Truffaut, and Godard. She had looked at his hands. Big, with long fingers. Young hands, and strong. She had had another Courvoisier, or maybe two, and then he had begun to stand up. ‘Thank you,” he had said. “I won’t take up any more of your time.
I’ve always admired you, but now I adore you.” It was the line from Walking in the Dark, when Pierre was about to leave her. “Je t’adore,” he finished.
And she had fallen apart. Publicly. Noisily. Oh, God. in front of Maurice. In front of the help. She remembered her mother’s frosty look, her slightly elevated brow, “Pas avant les domestiques.”
Oh, she’d been pathetic, her behavior shameful. ‘Please, don’t leave me. Don’t let them see me like this.” What then? Through the hall, to the lobby bench.
Then upstairs. Then … oh, my God. She’d been ill. Oh. He’d helped her. And then?
And the rest of what had happened in Room 705 broke over her like a wave.
Images returned to her, and feelings. His hand curved around her breast, his soft cheek against hers, his face looking down as he entered her. A man she didn’t know, a boy almost, less than half her age.
How could she have done this? It must have been the Courvoisier. On an empty stomach. She remembered the young man offering to take her home. The thought of going to the New York apartment and maybe encountering Bill in her state had appalled and humiliated her. No, she had said, she was going to Greenwich.
Then the agonizing ride through the early-evening traffic, home to Chessie.
It was unbearable. What if Bill … but that was unthinkable. The pain was now intolerable. Her eye was watering uncontrollably.
Involuntary tears. If only she could have a drink. Horrified at the thought, a drink at nine A.M she prayed that Chessie would soon come.
What could she do? Talk to Uncle Bob? But he’d be so disappointed in her. How could she tell him she was a drunk? Check into a clinic?
She closed her eyes at the thought. Twenty-eight days, to listen to them whine over their problems, to lie to herself, pretend she was like them, that she’d be better now, that she would go for therapy and never drink again. But it wouldn’t work. She wasn’t like anyone. She was smarter, more beautiful, better educated. When she was born, she’d been the wealthiest baby in America. Now she was a drunk. And a whore.
Once again, despite herself, she remembered the feel of the young man’s cheek against hers. Tears, real ones this time, sprang up in her eyes.
It had felt so very good, but now she felt so very bad. And oh, God, hadn’t he had a camera? What exactly had happened to the camera? She couldn’t even remember what had happened after the sex, or when they had parted or how she got home.
With a horrible feeling in her stomach, Elise realized she didn’t even know his name.
Mother had once told her to find a man who would not be competitive with her, who would bask in her glory. Bill had seemed to be such a man. She recognized it the moment she had met him at the cocktail party. She heard his name and realized that he must be one of the Atchisons who went so far back they were
Oh, God.
It hadn’t been the first time one of those little filmies had recognized and complimented her. And she was always gracious.
Gracious but not familiar, just as her mother had directed her. She smiled, thanked them, but never stooped to autographing or picture-taking. Not until yesterday. She groaned again. Oh, God, oh, God. It was coming back more clearly.
Tall, thin, wearing that costume of jeans and tweed jacket that young men seemed to prefer, rather like the black pullovers that Gerard and their friends had favored back in the early sixties. What had they talked about? Her films, the good ones. Yes, he had understood about them. About Truffaut, and Godard. She had looked at his hands. Big, with long fingers. Young hands, and strong. She had had another Courvoisier, or maybe two, and then he had begun to stand up. ‘Thank you,” he had said. “I won’t take up any more of your time.
I’ve always admired you, but now I adore you.” It was the line from Walking in the Dark, when Pierre was about to leave her. “Je t’adore,” he finished.
And she had fallen apart. Publicly. Noisily. Oh, God. in front of Maurice. In front of the help. She remembered her mother’s frosty look, her slightly elevated brow, “Pas avant les domestiques.”
Oh, she’d been pathetic, her behavior shameful. ‘Please, don’t leave me. Don’t let them see me like this.” What then? Through the hall, to the lobby bench.
Then upstairs. Then … oh, my God. She’d been ill. Oh. He’d helped her. And then?
And the rest of what had happened in Room 705 broke over her like a wave.
Images returned to her, and feelings. His hand curved around her breast, his soft cheek against hers, his face looking down as he entered her. A man she didn’t know, a boy almost, less than half her age.
How could she have done this? It must have been the Courvoisier. On an empty stomach. She remembered the young man offering to take her home. The thought of going to the New York apartment and maybe encountering Bill in her state had appalled and humiliated her. No, she had said, she was going to Greenwich.
Then the agonizing ride through the early-evening traffic, home to Chessie.
It was unbearable. What if Bill … but that was unthinkable. The pain was now intolerable. Her eye was watering uncontrollably.
Involuntary tears. If only she could have a drink. Horrified at the thought, a drink at nine A.M she prayed that Chessie would soon come.
What could she do? Talk to Uncle Bob? But he’d be so disappointed in her. How could she tell him she was a drunk? Check into a clinic?
She closed her eyes at the thought. Twenty-eight days, to listen to them whine over their problems, to lie to herself, pretend she was like them, that she’d be better now, that she would go for therapy and never drink again. But it wouldn’t work. She wasn’t like anyone. She was smarter, more beautiful, better educated. When she was born, she’d been the wealthiest baby in America. Now she was a drunk. And a whore.
Once again, despite herself, she remembered the feel of the young man’s cheek against hers. Tears, real ones this time, sprang up in her eyes.
It had felt so very good, but now she felt so very bad. And oh, God, hadn’t he had a camera? What exactly had happened to the camera? She couldn’t even remember what had happened after the sex, or when they had parted or how she got home.
With a horrible feeling in her stomach, Elise realized she didn’t even know his name.
Mother had once told her to find a man who would not be competitive with her, who would bask in her glory. Bill had seemed to be such a man. She recognized it the moment she had met him at the cocktail party. She heard his name and realized that he must be one of the Atchisons who went so far back they were
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