She wandered over to the shoe salon, the busiest part of the store, the air humming with chatter and gossip from customers and salespeople alike, yet the teeming space was divided into cozy, intimate little areas where one could almost feel as if one was sitting in one’s own dressing room. She sat down, someone brought her tea in a Spode china cup, and then she was being shown dozens of white leather loafers, some with tassels, some with gold hardware, some with slippery leather soles, some with ridged rubber driving soles; all made of luxurious calfskin leather, soft and malleable, already conforming to her long, narrow feet. After much consideration—walking carefully, weighing each step, studying how her feet looked in the little slanted mirrors—Babe chose three pairs of Ferragamo loafers, identical, so that she could have a pair waiting for her at Kiluna, at Round Hill in Jamaica, and at Kiluna North, in New Hampshire. While she didn’t quite subscribe to the Guinnesses’ method of having identical wardrobes at all their various homes, so they didn’t have to carry luggage with them, she felt that she was being very prudent in this case. Italian loafers were a staple, just like loaves of bread. She was only exhibiting common sense.
The shoes, too, were whisked away to be wrapped up and shipped to the appropriate locations; after thanking the salesperson, Babe resumed her wandering, feeling very odd, light, as if she might float off the ground, like a balloon breaking free of its tether. Generally, Babe did not meander; she did not approve of it because her mother had not approved of such wasteful effort. Babe always had a plan, a list, and spending an afternoon at Bergdorf’s to fulfill it restored her sense of self, of worth and accomplishment. But today, it wasn’t working. So she found herself, uncharacteristically, picking items up just to feel the slippery fabric of a silk dress, or the cool weight of a gold belt, in her hand, then placing them back down again, picking up, placing down, over and over, touching, touching, touching—silk and satin and gold and silver and crystal and leather and wool—and she knew she looked ridiculous; she could glimpse Mr. Stevens trying not to stare at her. Babe Paley simply never made an empty gesture, and here she was, assembling a parade of them. But her feet, her hands, her mind, her heart, were all restless.
Truman. It was all because of Truman. The things that used to keep her occupied and amused, now that she had grown to rely on him so deeply, did not. She was not the same person she’d been, before him. So what would happen to her if she lost him now? Now that he was vaulted into the celebrity stratosphere? Now that he was appearing on talk shows, on the covers of magazines, with his pick of royal admirers, debutantes, movie stars?
Now that, for the first time, he didn’t need her as much as she needed him?
Oh, what did it matter if she bought something new, something designed to make her look beautiful and desirable, today? Truman loved to admire her clothes—he could spend as much time in her closet as she could, happily taking inventory; he delighted in watching as she arrayed herself for an evening out or in, sitting at her feet, applauding and gasping and praising as she put on a private fashion show for two.
But now the world was at his feet. And nothing would be the same. And she had recognized herself in the pages of his masterpiece, in the guise of a plain—downright ugly, even—murdered housewife from Kansas.
Babe lit up a cigarette; she knew she smoked too much lately, lighting up one after another in her long ebony holder. Her doctor, worried about a persistent cough, had suggested she cut back, but that was impossible.
“Babe! Darling!”
Babe quickly inhaled, desperate for the smoke in her lungs; closing her eyes in an almost sexual pleasure, she exhaled and finally turned, a welcoming smile on her face before she even knew who had called her name. When she saw that it was Slim, she smiled even brighter, genuinely happy to see her. Surprised, as well.
Lady Keith, as she was now known after her marriage to a dusty, dreary British nobleman, had a title, that was true. But titles were a dime a dozen in their world, especially those titles without the cash to back them up. And that, unfortunately, was the title that Slim had hastily married, on the rebound from Leland, a few years back.
“Slim, dear, I’m so happy to see you! What are you doing here? I mean, what are you shopping for today?”
“Stockings and lingerie. Those Brits don’t know what they’re doing in that way. Now, they are brilliant with riding boots and hunting jackets, I’ll give them that. But anything for the boudoir simply isn’t in their wheelhouse, or imagination.”
“Boudoir?” Babe arched an eyebrow.
“Oh, Babe, not with my husband! How dreary! No, I have an assignation later on.” Slim looked her friend square in the eye, and Babe felt a flood of relief. So, not with Bill. Thank God. Slim would never do that to her, unlike some of her other so-called friends.
“You don’t have to tell me who.” Babe patted Slim’s arm. “I’m simply happy that you’re finding a way to have a little fun. Kenneth is…well, so very British.”
“You mean so very dull and hellishly snobbish. Well, I married him, so what’s that say about me?”
“It says you never have gotten over Leland,” Babe answered. Slim’s blue eyes filled with tears, her nose reddened, and she nodded, before turning away to look at a pair of brown suede gloves. “What an idiot I was, to have fallen in love with my own husband,” Slim whispered, blinking furiously. “Tell me about Truman. Have you seen him lately? Is the little guy insufferable with success?” And just like that, Slim was once again her fun, breezy self; she tucked her arm in Babe’s and the two headed to the elevator, where Slim instructed the boy to take them up to the lingerie floor.
“Yes, two days ago. He gave me a copy of In Cold Blood to read, and it was fabulous. Wasn’t it, Slim? Simply stunning?” For despite her tutelage under Truman’s watch—the mountains of books he made her read, some enjoyable (Jane Austen, for instance) others not (goodness, she simply loathed the Proust, which had disappointed Truman to no end)—Babe still was unsure of her judgment where literature, politics, the arts were concerned.
“God, yes. He’s brilliant. The book’s brilliant. I couldn’t put it down. And he knows it, too, the little devil. But I have to say he’s done me a great favor. He wants me to handle the film rights to it, because he knows I haven’t a penny, really, to call my own. Or should I say a shilling? Anyway, that’s very generous of him.”
“Oh, it is!” And Babe felt herself glow from within, proud of Truman and happy for Slim.
“I wonder,” Slim mused, freshening up her lipstick, quickly, before the elevator stopped. “I wonder if he’ll still have time for us, the little people. Now that he’s such a big fat famous star. And I mean that, literally. He’s putting on weight.”
“Oh, Slim,” Babe automatically admonished. But she didn’t say anything else, and Slim, snapping shut her gold compact and slipping it back in her purse, caught the pucker of a frown between Babe’s beautiful eyes.
The elevator stopped and the two of them exited it, finding themselves in a discreet boudoir—the lights were even subtly dimmed—full of lace and satin and silk. Antique chests with drawers overflowing with garter belts, black silk stockings. Armoires opened to display stunning pink peignoirs trimmed with dyed rabbit fur, wispy little negligees of delicate lace, so fragile-looking, like the most intricate spiderweb. An entire trunk full of a make-believe bride’s trousseau—ivory satin negligees, matching robes, silk panties in every pastel, frothy bed jackets. Over in a corner were a few sensible cotton pajamas, men’s style, hung on scented padded hangers.
And discreet young saleswomen everywhere, withholding judgment, assisting, measuring, fetching.
“My treat,” Babe announced, tucking her arm in Slim’s. “I’m completely at loose ends today, but I can’t think of a thing I need. It would bring me great happiness to buy something for you, Slim. There’s nothing more I’d like to do today. Truly.”
“No, Babe, I couldn’t.” Slim shook her head vehemently. “I’m perfectly fine.”
“I insist. Please, Slim, please.” And Babe dropped her friend’s arm; there was a look of quiet desperation in those brown eyes that Slim hadn’t seen in a very long time, since before Truman. “Please let me. It would mean so much, you see. To help, in any way—”
“I see.” And Slim did see; she saw that her friend was panicked, terrified, although Slim couldn’t begin to think of the reason. Babe was at the peak of her beauty; just to look at her made one feel restful, refreshed. Those sculpted cheekbones, the deep-set eyes; her jawline was still firm, her skin creamy and unlined. Even her hair, more silver than black now, looked striking. And she was as trim as ever; she never seemed to put on a pound. Indulgence was not in Babe’s nature, and she was reaping the benefits now, unlike Slim, who automatically patted her chin, feeling the flesh give way, even wiggle a little.
Was Slim jealous of Babe? She told herself she wasn’t; she told herself that Babe was her one and only female friend, the only one she’d never felt in competition with, because there simply was no comparison. Babe was in her own class. And Slim always saw how that could be a lonely existence, one that she herself didn’t really covet. She saw it in sharp relief today; Babe had been overjoyed to see her, but not before Slim had caught a glimpse of raw fear in her friend’s eyes.
“Then thank you very much, dearest Babe.”
“Oh, good!” And Babe beamed; the pucker between her eyes relaxed. “Let’s pick something out that’s perfect.”
“Yes, perfect.” Slim followed Babe, who now strode through the department with confidence, her exquisite taste unquestionable as she sorted through hangers, delicately picked through piles. Soon she had a small but absolutely breathtaking assortment of gowns in Slim’s exact size—God, for the days when she was a six!—and Slim found herself in an elaborate dressing room filled with more furniture than most small apartments, trying them all on.
“Now, do not look at the price tags,” Babe instructed in a soothing voice through the closed door. “Promise?”
“Promise,” said Slim as she studied herself in a mirror, turning so she could see her backside, lifting her breasts with her hands and frowning as they fell back into middle-aged place. “Babe?”
“Yes, dear?”
“I didn’t mean what I said, earlier. Of course Truman will still have time for us. We’re his swans, remember? I was only being flippant. He’s still our True Heart.”
There was a long pause, then Babe murmured, “Thank you.”
“Now”—Slim threw open the dressing room door with a grand gesture, just like Claudette Colbert in a movie from the thirties. She swept around the little parlor where Babe was perched on a chair, enjoying another tiny cup of tea. Posing, posturing, Slim modeled the most exquisite—and expensive—of the gowns, a white silk one with delicate black embroidered flowers across the cups and straps; it plunged down in the back to just barely above her tailbone, and the silk felt like cool lips on her skin. “What do you think?”
“I think whoever it’s for will be unable to resist you for a second.”
“Then I’ll take it. And thank you, my dearest friend.” Slim ran to Babe and threw her arms about her, kissed her on the cheek, then fled back to the dressing room, leaving them both breathless and slightly dizzy from the unexpected physical contact.
They simply didn’t do that, normally. Friendship among their set was sedate, wry, at arm’s length.
But something about Babe today—how pale, how uncertain she had looked before Slim called out to her, her hesitancy in discussing Truman—touched Slim to the core. In taking Babe’s gift, Slim felt she was giving, instead. Giving Babe something she very much needed.
“Let’s go make sure Truman doesn’t forget us,” Slim urged, after Babe had paid for the gown. “Let’s go buy him the kind of present that he likes. Something shiny and garish and too damn expensive for him to ignore.”
“That’s a wonderful idea!” Babe’s eyes lit up. “Something for his new apartment; I know exactly what he needs—he saw the most exquisite foo dogs at this little antiques store on Seventh Avenue.”
“Seventh Avenue it is!” As the two women exited Bergdorf’s, the CBS limo was already waiting for them. Mr. Stevens had done his job well. They handed their purchases, wrapped up in the signature Bergdorf purple, to the driver, who carefully placed them in the trunk.
Then they sank down into the seats, and were driven two blocks west.
“It’s fun, sometimes, pretending,” Babe said.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, today. Today, I just pretended I was someone else. It was fun, in a way. Not to be me, just to be a person. A normal person.”
Slim gnawed her lip, watching her friend settle happily into the plush leather of the sedan. She looked outside the window; they were stuck in traffic, people walking briskly by. They could have strolled to the shop faster than their luxurious car was moving.
“Darling Babe,” Slim murmured, taking her friend’s hand.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just don’t pretend too often, please. I love you just the way you are. And so does Bill. And so does Truman.”
Babe blushed and folded her arms; she looked outside and didn’t say a word. But Slim glimpsed a tear rolling down her cheek, reflected in the discreetly tinted windows of the Town Car.
CHAPTER 12
…..
New York loved a parade.
For war heroes, baseball players, prizefighters, presidents, holidays. Ticker tape raining down from the tallest buildings; ridiculous giant balloons floating down Broadway for Thanksgiving. Fireworks over the Statue of Liberty on the Fourth of July.
But as much as he wanted to, longed to, ached to, Truman Capote could not give himself a parade. Or erect a statue in his own honor. Or name a park after himself. Or rent the Statue of Liberty.
Second to parades, statues, and parks, then, New York loved a party. A really splendid soiree. The Mrs. Astor’s famous Patriarch’s balls, admission only to the Four Hundred as determined by her little lapdog, Ward McAllister. Mrs. Vanderbilt’s costume ball to christen her new mansion, the one that the Mrs. Astor deigned to attend, thus allowing those upstart Vanderbilts into real Society and ushering in the excesses of the Gilded Age. The Bradley-Martins’ infamous Louis XIV party, given in the middle of one of the worst recessions in American history. The Bradley-Martins felt it necessary to leave the country soon after. But every single guest thought it a fabulous time.
Then there were the more recent parties before the war, given by the legendary Elsa Maxwell, that corpulent darling of society. Elsa invented the scavenger hunt: heiresses in their evening clothes accosting hobos for scraps of food, canned goods, whatever was on the list, screeching with laughter, running off with prizes. Treasure hunts in the ballroom of the Waldorf Astoria, millionaires elbowing one another viciously for tin trinkets and plastic whistles.
Then there were the charity galas and openings galore, one practically every night during the season; socialites and their reluctant husbands dressed to the nines. But it was always for a good cause! It was work, really. One simply had to do her part, no matter how tiring it might be, planning a wardrobe for an entire season, spending hours before the mirror ensuring that each gown was flattering from any angle, because, really, one could not trust those photographers to capture the most beguiling aspect.
But there hadn’t been a truly grand party, an honest-to-God, “Honey, let’s get Grandmama’s tiara out,” fancy-dress party in decades. And Truman decided it was his duty to rectify this.
All summer long—the summer of 1966, the golden summer, as even then he knew he would look back on it; the summer of his ascendancy to the very top of the world, literary, popular, social—Truman sang a little tune to himself.
Well, didja evah, what a swell party, a swell party, a swellegant elegant party, this is….
For Truman was going to throw himself a party in lieu of a parade. A party so grand, so exclusive, it would keep him
in the headlines for months. It would make those who weren’t invited weep and flee the country, or change their names and go into hiding. It would go down in history as the most, the cherry on top of the sundae, the caviar on top of the toast. The diamond as big as the Ritz.
And so that golden summer, as Truman lounged poolside at his friends’ mansions, sunned himself on their yachts in the Mediterranean, even on the rare occasions it was only him and Jack, silent but companionable on the beach between their adjacent houses in Southampton, he planned (when he wasn’t clipping reviews for his scrapbook, or giving interviews, or posing for photographs). He schemed. He was never without his notebook, a plain, black-covered lined notebook, and he wrote down and crossed out names, over and over and over again. For he was Ward McAllister and the Mrs. Astor and himself, Truman Capote, literary giant/social arbiter, all rolled into one.
He had the power now. And the money.
As he lay on the Agnellis’ yacht that summer—refusing to go off on their exhausting little excursions to some ruin or another, smirking when they all trooped back, dusty and footsore while he had spent the day being served champagne by swarthy stewards, bobbing up and down in the turquoise Mediterranean, admiring the scenery from afar—or lounged by Babe’s pool, or danced with Lee Radziwill (Jackie’s sister, don’tchaknow, the newest addition to his swans), Truman, on the outside, was the same as ever. The same jokester, prankster, entertainer. The same lapdog, pocket fairy, jester.
The Swans of Fifth Avenue Page 17
