Chocolates for Breakfast by Pamela Moore Page A

know—”
    And she stopped short because she saw Courtney staring at her.
    â€œI promise you, darling. And as soon as we can we’ll move into a house in Beverly Hills, with a swimming pool—”
    â€œI don’t want to live in Beverly Hills,” Courtney said miserably. “I want to live right here.”
    And then she was sorry she said that.
    â€œLook, Courtney, we can’t live here. Don’t you think I’d like to, too? If it weren’t for you, with just a little television work I could have a room here by myself, but I brought you out here because you refused to go back to boarding school. Don’t make things harder for me than they are.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Mummy. Really.” That had been a childish thing to say. She should have thought before she said that. Of course her mother wanted to stay in the Garden.
    â€œMay I fix you another drink?” she said.
    â€œYes.”
    Courtney made her mother another drink and then excused herself.
    She knew she shouldn’t have gone to bed when her mother was upset; she knew she should have stayed with her. But she didn’t want to. She wanted to be by herself, to be in bed. She was sick of thinking of other people. She was terribly tired of assuming part of other people’s unhappiness. She wanted to nurse her own disappointment. She cried herself to sleep, leaving her mother alone in the living room.
    When she got up in the morning it was still raining, that miserable rain. She went into the kitchen and cooked herself a couple of eggs. When she got the eggs she shoved the bottle of champagne behind some milk, so her mother wouldn’t see it when she got up. She noted that the bottle of Scotch, new the night before, was nearly empty. She didn’t want to be around when her mother got up. A hangover added to everything else would be too much to face. It was already eleven o’clock. Some of the men in the Garden would be playing gin rummy in the room with the fireplace, but she didn’t want to go there and watch them play and feel like a nuisance.
    Then she knew where she would go. She would go to see Al. Only she would have to call him first, of course, because he might not be alone. It was still kind of early.
    â€œHello?”
    â€œHi, Al, this is Courtney Farrell.” She always gave her full name on the phone; she liked the sound of it.
    â€œOh, hi, Court.”
    â€œI hope I didn’t wake you up—”
    â€œNo, sweetie, I’ve been up about fifteen minutes.”
    â€œOh, good. Al . . . I wondered if I could come by and talk to you.”
    â€œSure, Court. Something wrong, baby?”
    â€œNot really. I just wanted to talk to somebody. I hope I’m not intruding or bothering you or anything.”
    â€œIf you were, babe, I’d tell you. No, come on over and have some coffee while I have breakfast.”
    Al had an idea of what Courtney wanted to talk to him about. Yesterday the manager of the Garden had come to him and told him that Sondra would have to leave security or pay at least half of the bill before she left. Knowing that the Garden bill was not the only one that Sondra owed, Al had made the arrangements. That was yesterday, and Sondra was perfectly willing to leave security, sure that the arrangement would never have to be put into practice.
    Courtney took her cup of coffee and put it on the table beside the couch. She set some pillows under her head and lay down.
    â€œGet to bed late?” said Al as he brought his breakfast in.
    â€œNo,” Courtney said. “I’m just awfully tired, for some reason. I got to bed kind of early, but I could hardly get up this morning.”
    â€œMmm. Rainy morning,” Al suggested. “Want some toast?”
    â€œNo, thanks, I’m not very hungry.”
    â€œAl,” Courtney said suddenly, “we’ve got to move out of the Garden.”
    â€œI know,