“Well, yes, I am. Actually, I’m—I’m the guest of honor.” Kay felt rather silly saying this out loud; she didn’t really know why she did. She guessed that she was a bit proud of the fact, after all.
“What?” The young lady stopped dead in her tracks, causing Kay to bump into her, and another woman, dressed in a wild Pucci print dress, to run into Kay. “You’re the guest of honor? For Truman’s party?”
Kay felt her cheeks burn, and she ducked her head again, feeling stares upon stares on her plain, unstylish figure. “Yes.”
“Oh, no!”
Kay raised her head and wondered what she’d done wrong. “I’m sorry?”
“Oh, no, this will never do! You can’t be seen by Marco! Come, come, Kenneth will see to you himself.”
“But I don’t want to be a bother; it doesn’t really matter who does my hair—”
The young woman gasped. So did the Pucci-clad lady behind Kay who, upon further examination, turned out to be Kitty Carlisle Hart.
“Of course it matters! Kenneth would be crushed if he wasn’t allowed to do your hair for the ball!”
And so Kay had no choice but to follow the young woman up still another flight of grand stairs, to a bright yellow room with the golden glow of an inner sanctum. And before she knew it, she found herself—plain dress somehow removed, so that she was now clad in a beautiful orange-and-pink poncho—in a black patent-leather chair that resembled a throne, with a young, puckish man with thinning hair, in a dark suit and tie, like a banker, hovering over her with his hands full of combs and brushes and enormous hair clips. On her right sat a very young woman clad in a similar poncho, probably a model, for her face looked familiar. On her left sat a woman with her hair half covered in elaborate ringlets, powdered white; the other half of her head was dyed jet black and hung limply, obviously not yet done.
Rose Kennedy, her hair freshly dyed and hanging straight, obviously waiting to be set, sat opposite, waving gaily, and Kay waved back, thankful to see a familiar face. Yet even as she waved to Mrs. Kennedy, Kay felt as if she had stepped through the looking glass. She wasn’t used to pampering herself on the scale of a Kennedy!
“Mrs. Graham!” Kenneth—Kenneth himself! The creator of Jackie Kennedy’s bouffant hairdo and Marilyn Monroe’s flip—put his combs and brushes down and clapped his hands, causing Kay to gasp. “It’s an honor to do your hair. What kind of mask are you wearing? Did you bring it? And your dress?”
“Oh, no, I didn’t think of that—”
“Never mind,” Kenneth said kindly, with a sympathetic twinkle in his impish eyes. “Describe them to me.”
“Well, they’re quite simple, really, just a white dress, in a robe style, with long sleeves, with these crystals—hematites, gray—around the neck and sleeves, and on the mask, too. It’s white.”
“I think, then, something classic and chic. We’ll set it, but then brush it up, from the face, secure it in the back very plainly and let the sides be, very sleek, very nice.”
“Oh, yes! Thank you!” And Kay Graham could have burst into tears; Kenneth seemed to know exactly what she had in mind. Not for her the elaborate coiffures, curls upon curls, fake pieces, odd dyes that she’d seen.
“I think that sounds lovely, dear,” Rose called to her in her brittle Boston accent, and Kay nodded enthusiastically. Then she allowed herself to relax and be pampered; someone brought her a tray, on which were tiny little tea sandwiches, a flute of champagne, a cup of broth. She nibbled, had her nails done, sat with her hair in rollers under the quietest dryer she’d ever experienced, watched as Kenneth created miracles on other women’s heads, closed her eyes as he did the same to hers, once she came out of the dryer, and then—
“Voilà!”
Kay opened her eyes. She felt her face stretch into a smile so broad, so purely delighted, that she almost didn’t recognize it, for it had been a long time, truly, since she’d smiled like that—beamed, actually.
But she looked wonderful! Oh, simply wonderful, and what a shame it was that Phil wasn’t here to see her—but no, she wouldn’t cry; she blinked away the few tears that sprang to her eyes. But he had been so handsome, and she so plain, and she always felt the difference even though he, when he was himself, never did. When he wasn’t himself—
Well, that was it. He wasn’t himself.
But now she looked so pretty! So young, her hair sleek and simple, but she would never be able to replicate it at home. It took someone as talented as Kenneth to make her more herself than she’d ever been.
Kenneth didn’t have to ask how she liked it; he saw the tears in her eyes. He blinked his own away and sighed the satisfied sigh of an artist at the end of a good day’s work.
Then he turned to do the same thing, all over again, to the next beautiful woman walking into his studio. Marisa Berenson. What a vision.
Kay Graham slipped away, careful not to muss her hair as she changed back into her dress, thankful that it had stopped raining as she walked outside, so afraid of disturbing her hair that she didn’t even turn her head. But she had to hurry back to the Plaza to change, to have her daughter, Lally, make up her face (for Kay truly didn’t know how), and to wait for Truman—dear Truman, kind, thoughtful Truman!—to knock on her door and escort her, Cinderella, to the ball.
Until this moment, Kay really hadn’t been looking forward to it. But now she couldn’t wait.
—
SLIM, TOO, WAS AT Kenneth’s that afternoon, although she missed Kay Graham. She also—due to the brilliance of Kenneth’s staff—missed Pamela Churchill Hayward, thank Christ! But she couldn’t very well miss her this evening, and so Slim put herself into Kenneth’s hands, knowing he would make her look beautiful.
She was looking forward to the party, even though she would see more ex-husbands and ex-lovers than she wanted to. But a party was a party, and maybe a good brawl would break out at this one—Truman once told her that was the sign of a really great party.
Although somehow she sensed that he wouldn’t really think so, if it happened tonight.
—
TRUMAN WAS ALL AFLUTTER. He was simply exhausted by the phone ringing all afternoon in his suite at the Plaza; the Kansas group, the plain, darling people he’d met while researching In Cold Blood, kept calling him, keeping him abreast of their adventures (they’d had their hair done at the Plaza salon, their masks were all delivered, their gowns pressed). They were ecstatic at being invited to his party, and their enthusiasm touched him—really, it was nothing to have invited them, to have given their dreary lives a little color!—even if he didn’t have time for it right now. The management of the Plaza had a flurry of last-minute questions about floral arrangements and details about the orchestra and did he want the buffet served at midnight or later? And about the security…that was a headache! They assured him his guests would appreciate a separate entrance, not through the main doors on Grand Army Plaza, so that some of them could avoid the inevitable cameras and onlookers.
Truman agreed—shuddering at the cost—even as he rolled his eyes. If he knew his guests, and he did, none of them would take advantage of this hidden entrance.
And then Kay kept calling, offering to help, and, sweet, kind soul that she was, it annoyed him to the point where he finally asked her to arrange for a light supper in her room for just the two of them, something they could enjoy before heading down to greet their guests. Even though they were dining at the Paleys’, who were hosting the premier pre-party dinner. Still, they planned only to stop by for a drink before going back to the Plaza, as they had to be the very first ones there to receive their guests.
Anyway. Truman glanced at the stacks and stacks of newspapers surrounding him, all with some mention of the party. His party! The party of the year! The decade! The century!
Now it was time to dress, and he wondered for a moment if Jack was doing the same; dear, gruff, maddening Jack, who thought the whole thing a silly excuse, a ridiculous excess, oh, all the dreary things other
people—people who weren’t invited—were saying. “What a waste of time, Truman,” Jack had tsk-tsked. “You have a literary reputation to uphold now. A serious literary reputation.” But he’d promised he’d come anyway, and Truman simply adored him for that, and hoped against hope he would. He did love to show Jack off—when he was behaving.
Almost seven o’clock. Time to go down and fetch Kay. Poor, plain little Kay! God, he hoped Kenneth had done something marvelous to her; if anyone could, it was Kenneth. And he did hope she’d have a wonderful time tonight, the dear thing. Phil Graham’s suicide had been tragic, coming after a lifetime of schizophrenia. Poor Kay deserved a treat.
With one last glance in the mirror at his tuxedo, he patted his pocket where his dime-store mask—shades of Holly Golightly!—resided. Truman decided he looked wonderful—no longer the lithe young fawn of his youth, perhaps; he was settled now, settled into his legacy, into posterity. Maybe a little heavier than he’d like, true. His hair, absolutely thinning but he had invested in a hair transplant a few months back, and so the battle line was being held, for now. But his eyes were clear and bright, and he was reminded of the last time he gave a great party, a really terrific party. It was back in Monroeville when he was twelve and about to leave for New York, finally summoned by his mother. He’d thrown a farewell party for himself and invited a couple of local niggers, and the Klan had shown up and made a fuss, and it was the scandal of Monroeville for simply years and years.
Oh, he did hope tonight would be like that!
—
BABE STOOD IN THE DINING ROOM of her apartment, so filled with white, old-fashioned flowers, it looked like an English garden.
Babe had not had her hair done at Kenneth’s, as she knew it would be a madhouse, and according to Betsey, who’d telephoned earlier, it was. So she’d had a stylist come to her, and was very satisfied with the result; she looked stunning, actually, in a white Castillo, a long chiffon column of a dress, but sleeveless, showing off her lovely arms, bracelets, and rings. Her hair was perfect for the mask she would wear, white satin, framing her eyes. She had made sure she looked perfect from every angle, posing sideways in the three-way mirror in her dressing room, turning this way and that. Every image was reassuring, despite her worries; the dress looked divine, the mask complemented it beautifully and did not obscure her eyes, which she had accented with darker liner than usual, and with false eyelashes.
She’d helped Truman in the weeks leading up to the party, relieved to the point of tears, actually, to have been asked. This was his party, but somehow she wanted it to be hers, as well, and she was shocked and ashamed of herself. He must have understood, for he did seek her advice when it came to picking the decorations for the Grand Ballroom at the Plaza; he’d wanted to drape the walls in red, but she’d convinced him that would be too claustrophobic, and he’d agreed. So they decided on massive red floral arrangements on every table instead, leaving the ballroom more or less in its own glorious state, with the gilded mirrored walls unadorned, the chandeliers unobscured. “Let your guests be the décor,” she’d suggested, and he’d hugged her, one of his impulsive, childlike hugs. And for that moment, anyway, she felt their old kinship; she felt “his.” And knew that he was “hers.”
But other than that one instance, Truman had arranged everything himself, obviously reveling in his role as host. He so rarely was, at least on this scale—although he was simply brilliant at putting together casual, intimate little last-minute dinners—and she knew it meant so much to him, to be able to do this. “I’m paying you back, my love,” he whispered. “I’m paying you all back. For all the generosity you’ve shown me.”
Who could fail to be touched by that? By that innocent, impulsive generosity? Who could fail to be proud of him, Truman Capote, achieving such heights, basking in the glow of well-deserved success?
Yet…
Babe felt a little shaky, at that, as she put the final touches on the dining room, adjusting a knife here, a crystal glass there, picking up a few fallen flower petals. She felt a little shaky a lot these days; she never seemed to have enough air in her lungs. She was out of breath no matter what she was doing, shopping or talking to the help or even simply lying in bed reading. Her stomach, too, always sensitive, acted up far too often.
Change. Change was in the air, that’s what it was. Bill was the same, she supposed; taking her for granted, trotting her out for shareholders’ meetings, showering her with the best jewels and clothing, not because she desired or even asked for it, but to reflect well on him and his taste. Screwing around, discreetly enough.
But her children were grown now; poor Kate and her nervous condition at boarding school, same as Bill Junior. Her eldest daughter, Amanda, was married to a young up-and-coming politician named Carter Burden and suddenly, to Babe’s astonishment, the Burdens were the “It” couple of the younger set.
Was Babe jealous of her own daughter? She asked herself this in times of honesty, and had to answer in the affirmative. After all, youth and beauty were fleeting and she was at the upper end of her prime, she knew it, faced it head-on—unflinchingly staring at herself in the mirror every morning and night, assessing, taking notes. She did everything she could to make the most of her assets while she had them; her hair was still thick and luxurious, although mostly gray now, defiantly so—another Babe Paley trend. Her skin was still firm, tight, due to repeated trips to spas and salons, daily facials, massages, electric treatments.
And, yes, perhaps a discreet tightening up, under the scalpel. She could admit this—to herself, anyway.
Her figure was still lean; no middle-aged pooch or hump for her, due to her devotion to a new form of exercise called Pilates—a torturous regimen of pushing and pulling and stretching. And of course she wore the best clothes, the most fabulous jewels—tastefully.
But the sixties weren’t about taste, were they? She wasn’t sure she would be able to accommodate these new times; Babe understood her style, had never given in to trends, but that didn’t seem to be enough anymore. And if she wasn’t the most stylish, the most perfect of them all, then—who was she?
Truman was the one who could answer that; he always had been able to. And despite her fears when In Cold Blood came out, he’d not really abandoned her or her friends; if anything, he’d thrown himself more fully into their midst, laughing louder, telling even more outrageous stories—“Oh, Babe, darling Babe, do you know what that awful Gore Vidal said about me this time? Of course, I drank him for lunch, so it doesn’t matter now”—dancing even more desperately (gyrating, shaking all over, his eyes closed, his face beet red, wispy hair plastered to his head), indulging himself in every way. But it wasn’t quite the same, at that; the moments when it was just the two of them were more precious, because they were more rare.
Truman was also drinking too much, and Babe had yet to mention this to him, although she felt she must, sometime. But lately, one martini at lunch was not enough; it had to be two, three, followed by brandy, and then on to the cocktail hour.
She must, mustn’t she? Mention this to him? If she loved him, as she most certainly did? They’d always told each other the truth. But the truth wasn’t always pleasant.
Babe bit her lip, glided back to her fabulous bedroom in her fabulous apartment on Fifth Avenue, twenty rooms, the penthouse, decorated fabulously by Billy Baldwin and Sister Parish with the usual fabric-covered walls, tented ceilings, priceless antiques and paintings—and Bill’s prized Picasso, Boy Leading Horse, taking pride of place in the entranceway so it was the first thing you saw when you stepped off the private elevator. It was a glorious apartment and Babe was proud of it, the same way she was proud of her figure and her face and her clothes and her jewels. It was all for show, it was all for prestige; figure, face, and apartment all equally photographed and coveted.
But outside the tasteful walls, it was all changing; already Babe felt as much a relic as the gorgeous Louis XVI commode in the hallway. Prized and coveted—by a certai
n person, anyway. A person who looked back on the past, instead of forward to the future.
Oh, Babe! What a load of crap—she almost laughed out loud, so surprised was she by the little voice that called her out, shook her from her morbid musings. Look at you! You’re dressed gorgeously, about to go to the party of the year, see all your friends, be part of Truman’s big night. What on earth is wrong with you?
And then she heard the buzzer, footsteps as Bill left his room, the butler open the front door, and Truman’s cry of, “Oh, it’s gorgeous! So perfect! Babe! Babe, come here this minute and let me feast my eyes on you, you glorious creature!”
And Babe was happy again. She adjusted a shoulder strap, straightened the diamond-and-ruby floral burst of a necklace at her throat, and sailed out of her bedroom to greet her friend. Confident, serene, her stomach fluttering in anticipation of being the most beautiful, the most photographed.
The most loved by the only one who mattered.
—
THE DEWEYS WERE HAVING a ball. No pun intended.
From the moment Truman arrived in Kansas all those years ago, such a strange creature with his velvet jackets, long trailing scarves, and Gucci loafers, their world had been turned upside down. Of course, at first it was because of the terrible tragedy of the Clutter family, whom they had known very well, all four of them; that November of 1959 was just an awful month, what with the uncertainty, fear, and Alvin’s around-the-clock pursuit of the killers in his role as detective for the Kansas Bureau of Investigation. Truman had been annoying at first, this New York outsider whom nobody trusted because obviously he was only there to make a buck, write a story about them, make fun of them, probably; the first time he asked to interview Alvin he stated blithely, “It doesn’t mean anything to me if you ever catch who did this, it doesn’t matter one way or another,” and Alvin had had to forcibly restrain himself from punching the little fairy in the face. It meant a lot to him; he had to catch the killers, he had to close the case and bring justice and peace to his neighbors once more. That was his job.
The Swans of Fifth Avenue Page 20
