‘You’re even fewer than that.’ Slim shoved him, playfully. He pulled her into a brotherly kiss that lingered a breath longer than comfortable. Slim pushed him away, ever so gently, and Papa cleared his throat.
‘As I was saying, you and I will grow old and die together— you just don’t know it yet. In the meantime, I’m sure you’ll forgive my infidelity, for this ravenous creature is in dire need of attention.’ He turned back to Betty. ‘Mrs. Bogart, have you ever faced a charging bull?’
Betty grinned. ‘Not that I can recall.’
‘Well, I have. Let me tell you what it’s like, to look mortality in the eye…’
And taking her arm, Papa launched into an elaborate explanation of the corrida and its rituals, and all about the mano a mano pairing of Luis Miguel Dominguín and Antonio Ordóñez, the two great bullfighters of the day, about whom he was writing—which naturally, Slim mused, came full circle back to Papa.
‘Quelle fucking surprise,’ she could hear Truman groan, and smiled.
AT THE PLAZA de toros they were joined by Mrs. H, número cuatro: Miss Mary, who never had taken to Slim. It seemed Mary could never forgive that whether Mrs. Hawks or Mrs. Hayward, Slim had come before her, had outlasted wives and lovers alike, and thus held a special place in her Ernest’s heart. She shook Slim’s hand coolly, appraising her length and leanness and her maddeningly sun-kissed hair—the color her husband had forced her to dye her own.
Papa didn’t help matters, insisting he sit between Slim and Betty in the stands, enveloped in all that blondness, as if flanked by two trophies of exotic game: a pair of butterscotch panthers curled on either side of his thick, bearlike thighs. Miss Mary, none toopleased, attempted to squeeze in past Slim, when Papa bellowed— —
‘What do you think you’re doing, woman?’
Mary stammered something about her seat, her view, and blinked back tears as he banished her to the far end of the row. Sitting apart, her tight little mouth quivering in martyrdom, she shot a look of blame in Slim’s direction, as sharp as the picadors’ lance-points that pierced the bull’s flesh in the ring below, leaving gaping cuts like a series of open mouths.
If Slim had wanted Betty to drink deep, they’d achieved it in grand style, swigging cherry brandy from a suede flask they passed between them, squirting the potent liquid from its leathery bladder. The more the brandy flowed, the more Slim watched Betty relax woozy and oozy, leaning against Papa’s strong arm, while Miss Mary sat so rigid Slim worried that the fourth Mrs. Hemingway might shatter and break into a thousand lethal shards.
They’d lingered in the cantina over steaming plates of paella, the scent of saffron mingling with crustacean brine. To Slim’s delight, Papa spent the better part of the meal leaning over, whispering into Betty’s ear, the latter laughing throatily at his efforts.
Slim had been corralled by Luis Miguel Dominguín, attempting to unburden his troubled soul in a hybrid Spanish and English—something about an ill-fated affair with Ava Gardner, who he’d met when cast as the matador Romero in The Sun Also Rises. The words ‘stormy’ and ‘fiery’ were repeated in both languages, which didn’t surprise Slim in the least. Luis Miguel was not Ava’s first matador, but he was her first matador while Mrs. Sinatra.
Slim had it on good authority—Frank had told her this himself over a shared cigarette beneath a tangled set of hotel sheets during the one weekend they spent together in the desert, when Leland was out of town. Three stolen, sweat-soaked nights… Slim wasn’t proud of it, but there it was. She considered it a one-off. In ten years of marriage, surely Leland had done the same… ?
Between the Avas and tempestuosas and ardientes, Slim noticed Miss Mary—again relegated to the nub end of the banquet table—rise, seizing the moment when Papa lumbered off for a piss or a fight or a combination thereof.
Mary walked calmly toward Betty, sliding into Papa’s empty place beside her. Tipsy, dizzy, in love with the world once more, Betty beamed at her. With a terse smile, Miss Mary held out two clenched fists.
‘Mrs. Bogart, I have something for you.’
‘Oh, Mary.’ Betty purred. ‘How kind.’
Indicating her fists, Miss Mary urged, ‘Go on. Pick one. Left or right?’
A wave of girlish delight flashed across Betty’s face. Hesitating a moment, she pointed to the right hand of the offered pair and waited with anticipation.
Miss Mary’s lips twitched into a nascent crescent moon, as she uncurled her fingers to reveal a gleaming silver bullet resting in her palm. Slim and Betty stared at it, stunned sober. Mary leaned in close…
‘That’s what you’ll get if you ever lay a hand on my husband.’
‘Betty…’ Slim rose, protectively.
Miss Mary whirled around. ‘Care to play the other hand, Miss Slimsky… ?’
She dropped an identical bullet from her left fist onto Slim’s plate, where it landed with a muffled clink on the discarded mound of prawn shells.
BY THE TIME Slim and Betty crossed the threshold of the Ritz— this time in Paris—they’d had quite enough swigging from foul brandy gourds. Enough big game and men’s men, enough severed bull’s tails and tormentas and incendios. They were happy to shed panther skins for ladylike sheaths—grateful for pearls and bath salts and proper glassware.
So it was with the pleasure of the familiar that they walked through the marble lobby, tipping scarlet-capped porters who wheeled their luggage ahead. As they took their keys and turned toward the lobby lift—still laughing over the madness of nearly being shot, skinned, and roasted on a spit by Miss Mary, a tale they’d embellished on the flight back to Paris—they found themselves accosted by a monocled concierge, waving a slip of paper.
‘Pardon… Madame’ Ayward?’ he called, handing Slim a pink ‘message’ notice. ‘Just to inform you—Madame Churchill’s car waits outside.’
Slim frowned. ‘There must be some mistake. We didn’t hire a car.’
‘Oui. But Madame Churchill has made her car available for Madame’ Ayward’s use.’
After the requisite trade of mercis the concierge took his leave. Slim and Betty exchanged befuddled glances.
‘Pam Churchill?’ Betty raised an eyebrow. ‘As in Aly Khan and Stavros Nicharos and Élie de Rothschild and Averell Harriman Pam Churchill?’
Slim nodded, bored. ‘… and Ari Onassis and Jock Whitney and Gianni Agnelli…’
‘I didn’t know you and Leland knew Pam.’
‘We met her once at Babe’s. I must say I couldn’t see what all the fuss was about.’
‘I’m surprised that Babe would have her… you know. Around Bill.’
‘Pam took her shot at Paley years ago,’ Slim said, dismissing the notion. Then, almost as an afterthought—
‘Truman knows Pam.’
‘Truman knows everybody. He lunches with her occasionally—I think to come away with the most appalling dirt!’
‘Such as… ?’
‘Last week he told a story to a packed table at the Colony,’ Slim grinned at the memory, ‘—spilling the beans about Pam’s hysterectomy, claiming that her doctor pitched it as a form of birth control.’
‘No!’
‘Yes! Of course Tru launched into an imitation of Dr. Womb, who reportedly said after the procedure was over: “Well, little lady, we’ve taken away your baby carriage… but we’ve left you your playpen”!’
‘Only Truman,’ Betty chuckled. ‘Poor Pam!’
‘Poor Pam,’ Slim agreed, as far as she could be bothered.
THAT EVENING SLIM and bs settled into the curve of the Ritz Cambon bar and ordered a pair of gimlets.
In no time, another concierge appeared, clutching a stack of message slips the same sickly lipstick shade of pink, bowing ever so slightly as he retreated.
‘What in fresh hell… ?’ Slim grinned, tossing them onto the bar, sipping her celadon cocktail. Betty pulled eyeglasses from her evening bag, focusing on the first of the rosy papers.
‘Mrs. Churchill requests
Mrs. Hayward ring her. Number listed.’ She flipped to the next. ‘Mrs. Churchill would like to invite Mrs. Hayward and guest—that would be me, presumably—to her pied-à-terre, where she’s planned a quiet supper.’
‘Jesus Henry Christ! Skip to the last…’
‘Mrs. Churchill very much hopes to receive Mrs. Hayward and guest for dinner—reply requested.’ Betty removed her glasses, taking a swig of gimlet. ‘Seems someone has an admirer.’
‘Why all the interest in “Mrs. Hayward”? I barely know the woman!’ Slim laughed. ‘I mean, I suppose she must be grateful that I loaned Leland out for the evening…’
‘You what?!’
‘Babe asked me if Leland might pull Pacific house seats and join their group, wheeling the sad-sack broad around New York for an evening. Tru was in Verbier with Jack, and Babe was in a bind… Leland did it as a favor to me, and I was doing it as a favor to Babe, who was doing it as a favor to Betsey—’
Betty chuckled, ‘Helluva lotta favors.’
‘Well, what can you do with an Extra Woman?’ Slim motioned the barman for another round. ‘It’s a bit of a pain in the ass, if Tru’s not around to do the honors.’
Betty drained the dregs of her glass in silence.
Slim touched her arm. ‘Betty? What is it?’
‘Nothing I haven’t thought of before.’ Her gray eyes watered as she removed a Lucky Strike from her cigarette case, tapping it on the metal surface. ‘I’ve been part of a pair since I was nineteen. Now that Bogie’s gone, am I an Extra Woman… ?’ She lit her smoke, inhaling deeply, holding it in drooping fingers, like Bogie used to do.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll always be Bogie’s baby. And you’ll move on, when you’re ready, and be Mrs. So-and-So. And if you choose, Mrs. What’s-His-Name.’
‘I won’t be Mrs. Anyone but Bogart.’
‘Because you chose Bogie and he chose you. I was there, remember?’ They shared a nostalgic smile. Slim considered. ‘The terror of being an “Extra Woman” is that no one’s chosen you.’
‘Like Pam Churchill.’
‘Exactly.’ Slim plucked a cigarette from Betty’s case and lit it.
‘They may toy with her. Support her. But mark my words— nobody marries Pam Churchill.’
The barman deposited another round of gimlets, with them a telephone, attached to the wall with a cord the length of an unrolled ball of string.
‘Pardon, mesdames. But I have Madame Churchill on the line for Madame ’Ay-ward.’
Slim grinned at Betty—‘Now this is getting farcical.’
THE NEXT EVENING Slim and Betty arrived promptly at Madame Churchill’s Left Bank apartment for dinner, as summoned. The butterscotch panthers were in exquisite form—Slim in ivory jersey, delivered from Grès atelier, Betty in black Dior.
Opening the door to greet her guests, Pam Churchill struck Slim as being the human equivalent of meat in a butcher’s window, slightly past its prime. There was something of the premature matron about her, something musty and stale. Her bouffant hair seemed a choice someone twice her age might have made—and her dull crêpe dinner dress evoked Blitz-era thrift. One could hardly picture this cozy, rosy woman as the seductress of lore, but who knew what fetishes she satisfied behind closed doors. Perhaps Pam played the role of governess in a sensible brassiere and nursery-apron, and spanked the most-powerful-men-in-the-world, punishing them for their naughty thoughts. Slim could hardly look at Pam without snickering—she certainly couldn’t meet Betty’s eye.
‘Mrs. Hayward!’ Pam enthused, pulling Slim into an unexpected embrace.
‘Mrs. Churchill…’ Slim returned the gesture, but only out of courtesy. She noted that Pamela’s palms were warm and slightly moist.
‘This is my dear friend Betty Bac— —’
‘Yes, of course—Mrs. Bogart,’ Pam interrupted, taking Betty’s arm solicitously. ‘I’m terribly sorry to hear of your loss. Do come in and tell me all about it.’
Pam led them through a foyer, where she’d taken care to order an enormous arrangement of white flowers. In contrast to the rather garish, faux-rococo decor, the flowers were clean and simple—the only thing in the fussy brothel that provided the eyes a respite.
After they’d settled down to an intimate table for three, a downtrodden femme de ménage served the first course— vichyssoise, an odd choice for fall, barely edible. The topic of conversation floated from shared acquaintances to general chatter—about Paris, London, New York. Turned out Pam had simply loved Leland’s play. Adored Mary Martin—and Leland was so kind to take them backstage. Their group had decamped to Sardi’s afterward, and Leland was so thoughtful to have introduced Pam to Misters Rodgers and Hammerstein—and Yul Brynner to boot! She simply must see The King and I when next in town.
‘I’m so pleased you had a lovely time,’ Slim said as her untouched vichyssoise was removed and a sliver of saumon au gratin set in its place. She could tell in an instant that it was cooked to death— how Leland would hate that! They hardly ever ordered salmon when dining out, anticipating this common misstep.
Leland was a sensational cook—more skilled than most restaurant chefs, Slim loved to boast. It was his habit to make late-night suppers, just for the two of them, after the requisite rounds at Sardi’s and El Morocco and the Stork, and wherever else one went after the curtain went down on any given night. They’d return, often as late as three, and Leland would don his apron and indulge his passion for exquisitely prepared meals served on clean white plates, with clean white napkins, and clean white candles on the table. As Slim looked down at Pam’s Rothschild china, with its patterns of fowl and insects and tangle of botanicals vying for space amid the scraps of food, she missed the simplicity of Leland’s clean plates.
From the next room a phone began to ring… and ring. Unrelenting. Finally, after a mime-show of ‘ignoring’ the interruption, Pam looked apologetically to her guests.
‘Will you excuse me, ladies? I am expecting a transatlantic call.’
‘Of course,’ said Slim.
‘I’ll only be a moment.’
‘Take your time,’ Betty assured her.
As soon as their hostess left the room, Slim looked to Betty and the two fell into a fit of silent chuckles, which they muffled with their dinner napkins: a messy: paisley linen.
‘Who do we think it is? Gianni?’
‘No! He and Marella are in Rome.’
‘All right… Élie de Rothschild?’
‘Possible. Highly possible.’
In hushed tones, like unruly schoolgirls, Slim and Betty ran through the list of candidates for the caller, narrowing it to exactly three tycoons, until, after a brief absence, Pam returned, round cheeks rubicund. An air of satisfaction wrapped around her like a cocoon.
‘My apologies.’
‘It’s quite all right,’ Slim and Betty, in unison.
‘It’s astonishing,’ Pam blotted her dewy upper lip with her serviette, ‘how clear cable calls are nowadays! One can hear New York, for instance, as if the person’s in the next room!’
Betty cut her eyes to Slim, satisfied, she having put her phone-contender money on an heir to a Wall Street banking fortune.
‘Where were we… ?’ Pam was saying. ‘Oh, yes! Babe. Babe is lovely. What a delightful soul. Fragile… but delightful. Bill, on the other hand…’ She laughed a little too knowingly. ‘Well, Bill’s certainly a handful… I can’t imagine that marriage is easy!’
There was something about her tone that Slim didn’t care for. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but she allowed herself to wonder if the enterprising Mrs. Churchill had indeed had a second go at Bill Paley. Perhaps Babe had sensed it, and that’s why she’d wanted Leland to join their party—reinforcements against an all-out Churchill invasion?
Always one to have a pal’s back, Slim smiled politely at Pam, defending Babe by turning the topic to marriage in general. ‘I suppose any marriage has its challenges.’
‘And are you happy in yo
ur marriage?’ Pam leaned forward, all the more fascinated.
Slim sipped her wine, considering. Why should she tell a stranger about the pressures of a decade of till-death-do-us-part? About the life of a wife of a theatrical impresario, who stayed out each night till the wee hours. How even if you stayed out together, you were never alone. Not except for a stolen three-o’clock supper here and there, the only time you might stand a chance of harnessing his attention. Even then, the talk was of shop, shop, shop. This actor. That composer. Those returns, that flop… Sure, it looked shiny on the surface, but the specter of failure was palpable.
Why should she tell a stranger that she often felt like an underpaid nanny, saddled with three headcase stepkids? That every time the phone rang she felt a stab to the gut, wondering whether it might be the nut-bin about Billy, or the hospital reporting that Bridget had yet again attempted suicide, her seizures having made life unbearable. Why tell a stranger, thought Slim, that her own poisoned womb managed to lose fetus after fetus, like a plot from a third-rate horror script both of her husbands would’ve barred from production… ? That all she really wanted was to give Leland a child—a normal child, to make up for the defective ones whose eyes he couldn’t bear to meet. Slim wasn’t about to tell Pam Churchill—with her stale-cream-puff hair and garish plates—such complex truths.
Instead she simply said, ‘I guess no marriage is perfect.’
Pam looked at her curiously, as if watching the most fascinating performance, hoping to glean something from it. ‘Whatever do you mean… ?’
Slim heard her own voice, a detached, vague one…
‘Well, I suppose one could argue that a case could be made for living alone. Free of responsibility. From the realities of a partnership.’
Pam smiled, sympathy creeping into her tone. ‘Yes. Being an Extra Woman does have its advantages.’
Over the next hour, Slim and Betty soldiered through the dessert course (tarte Tatin, store bought) and—when cognac was offered— feigned just the right number of graceful yawns (claiming jet lag) to bring the dinner to a merciful end. They rose, thanking their hostess profusely in an effort to hide their ennui. Pam followed suit, turning first to Betty with the special smile reserved for widows, one that offered a sickening combination of condolence and condescension.
Swan Song Page 17
