‘Bitch.’ This through teeth clenched into a smile.
‘She can’t come over. There isn’t any room.’
‘She could pull a chair up…’
‘Well, we’ll just have to have another cart-dish to keep the path blocked.’
We looked to the maître d’ as he plated our salads, placing them around the table with a nod and an ‘Enjoy, madame’ for each of us.
‘And we’ll have six fettuccine carbonaras as well—baby size.’
‘So fattening! We can’t!’
‘It keeps the cart here…’
‘I heard she’d had Christie’s around to appraise the Haywards’ collection.’
‘She can’t do that! The deal’s not sealed yet—frankly, she got closer with Gianni.’
‘Even if Leland was so idiotic, she can’t just start taking Slim’s things!’
‘State of New York. Equal division of property.’
‘Well, my cook heard it from Slim’s cook, confirmed by Delores who’s friendly with Brooke. They say Pam’s been in residence in Manhasset the whole time Slim’s been away.’
‘No! For how long?’
‘Ever since that goddamn South Pacific with Bill and Babe.’
‘Does Slim know?’
‘Of course she doesn’t know! Do you think Slim would keep quiet over that? Pamela Churchill—living in her house?’
‘She never should have gone to Europe to help Betty.’
‘What do you mean? She was being a friend!’
‘Darling Slim.’
‘Salt of the earth.’
‘Always there for a pal.’
‘Do you want to know the worst?’
‘Go on!’
‘You have to promise not to breathe a word to another living soul…’
We all swore, solemnly. (A promise we’d keep until the next lunchtime sesh, when we’d make others promise the same. We maintained a shared delusion that any of us could ever keep a secret. Try as we might, there was always someone we’d find that we needed to tell.)
‘The cook says that Pam has gone through the house with sheets of red stickers—you know those ‘sold’ dots they use at charity auctions? Well, the Hayward cook says that Pam has gone around and stuck those on everything she wants Leland to get in the divorce.’
‘No!’
‘Furniture, paintings, the whole lot.’ ‘Isn’t she vile?’
‘Wretched woman!’
‘Poor Slim!’
‘I could just punch Leland in that great big jaw of his.’
‘But I’ve always liked Leland so…’
‘Not anymore.’
‘Agreed.’
‘Still… It’s not over yet.’ This had been hopeful, on all our parts.
‘After all, nobody marries Pam Churchill.’
And as the maître d’ returned to prepare the carbonara that we didn’t really want, that we’d only ordered to prevent the foul Mrs. Churchill from pulling up a chair, we watched the light fade a shade darker in the simulated gardens at Le Petit Jardin, and we pondered what kind of woman thinks to put red stickers on another woman’s treasures, and sighed a breath of relief, knowing how close each of our belongings had come to that same pock-marked fate.
ELEVEN
1960
SEPTET
THERE WAS A final twist in the Fandango that involved us all.
Slim was lying in bed, wallowing. Frankly, missing Leland. It was still early days, and she hadn’t completely accepted it was over.
The phone rang just before nine, something that’s seldom done, as we say. Her heart leaped as she scrambled for the receiver—Leland?
‘Helloooooo Big Mama,’ the caller chirped.
Truman, whose voice she was happy to hear. If it couldn’t be her darling Hay on the line, she would prefer the caller be Tru than any other.
‘Morning, Truheart. Why so early?’
‘Weeeuuullll, I’ve got a very special lunch all planned for you today, and I just had to get hold of you to make sure that you can be there.’
‘Where?’
‘The Colony. Trust me, Big Mama—I can’t tell you anything else about it, but I personally think I’ve come up with something really stupendously special.’
WE LATER LEARN that he had given us all slightly different time-lines, in order to stagger arrivals.
Slim was the first, as per Truman’s arrangements.
She entered the lobby, greeted warmly by owners Gene, then George: Of all our lunchtime haunts, the Colony took the cake for service, and while a popular business lunch spot for the gents, George and Gene knew precisely where their bread was buttered. One o’clock onward was known as the Hive, ‘Queen Bees’ reigning in the majority.
‘Hello, Miss Sleeem. What beautiful Dior you wear today.’ George kissed both her cheeks in the European style. Slim did look lovely, in a white crepe pantsuit with a low neckline.
‘Thanks, George. I’m meeting—’
‘Meester Truman—yes, he is expecting you. He has planned something most special. I think you all will like it very much.’
‘All of us who… ?’
‘He says it’s for heeeezz Swans.’
‘Ah. And how many “Swans” is he expecting… ?’
‘Oh, I cannot say—that is Meester Truman’s surprise. He awaits you in the bar.’
He motioned toward a Moorish door to the left of the lobby, which Gene held open for Slim to pass through. He offered a slight bow, not being quite so Continental as George.
‘Afternoon, Mrs. Hayward.’
It still pained Slim to hear that name, no longer hers.
They continued into the bar room, where Truman sat, looking très cat-ate-canary, grin widening as she approached.
‘Here, darling, I’ve already ordered you a little something. Marco’s made you a Colony Special…’ He slid a martini in front of her on the bar.
‘Okay, Truheart. What gives?’ She perched on the stool adjacent, studying his expression. ‘I just know that you’re up to something. You look far too pleased with yourself not to be.’
He batted his lashes, assuming a thick Southern accent. ‘Why, Ms. Slimsky, I haven’t the foggiest notion why you’d imply such a thing.’
‘Who’s coming? George already spilled the beans it’s not just us—which I’m more than a little peeved about, by the way. I dragged myself outta bed to be with you. I don’t need a group.’
‘Babe’s coming.’
‘Oh, well, that’s all right. If it’s just Babe.’
‘And maybe just a few others…’
‘Mmm. We eating in here?’ She motioned the bar area, set with twenty-some-odd tables. Since the Duke of Windsor proclaimed he actually preferred to eat in the bar, it had become all the rage.
‘Oh Lordy, no! I have a table all set. In the main room. This is a formal luncheon.’ Truman looked at his Cartier, strapped to his wrist. ‘Goodness, the time! Bring that with you. We’ll go on in, I think. We wouldn’t want to miss anything…’
He took Slim’s arm, cozying up to her while leading her back to the lobby.
George pushed open the portal to a long, rectangular space, burgundy and cream in tone, lit by cut-glass chandeliers and flickering candelabras. The dining room was heaving, chatter galore…
Yet the moment Slim and Truman entered the space, a hush fell over the crowd. All eyes turned to assess the new arrivals. Conversation and silverware suspended, and for a breath of a moment, it was as if time froze—a ritual that would repeat itself in varying degrees for every new arrival. The diners watched with added interest as George led them to a circular table, which had been specially placed in the prime location. Set for twelve, much to Slim’s dismay.
‘Looky here, honey,’ Tru enthused to Slim. ‘The choice spot. The holiest of holies.’
‘Fucking Christ, Truman! Do we even know this many people?’
‘Now, Big Mama, it’s good for you to be sociable.’ He pulled a chair out for Slim besi
de his own. The table was exquisitely set with the finest linens, clean white china, and antique silver. Hand-calligraphed menu cards sat at each setting, and at six of the twelve places, tiny, individual bowls, a fresh-cut gardenia floating in each.
Slim looked to her host, brow raised. ‘No Little Gems today?’
‘Nah—I thought we’d shake it up a bit. Gardenias are what Lady Day wore in her hair, and trust me, they smell heavenly.’
And as if on cue, in walked Babe. Same ritual: the silence from the other diners, the assessment. Mumbles of approval.
Babe, reaching the table, oblivious, pecked Slim’s cheek, then Tru’s.
‘Oh Tru, this really is lovely.’ Looking closer at the menu cards. ‘Ooooo, Quails Colony! My favorite. And Slim—look! Your crab bisque!’
‘Why do you think they’re there, Babyling? I’ve picked all your favorites. Now, Big Mama, do you want me to pin your gardenia in your hair? Clean white always looked so right against the gold.’
And with that the door swung open once more, revealing Marella. Truman called to her from across the room, ‘Benvenuta, Uno!’
Marella looked perplexed to see Slim and Babe, clearly misunderstanding that her invitation was not, in fact, à deux. Over the next ten minutes, the group expanded to include first Gloria, then C.Z., Truman delighting at each arrival.
Small talk commenced, Tru telling Marella and Gloria all about Verbier, about which snow bunnies had been spotted with strapping instructors skiing off-piste on the backside of Mont Fort. Babe babbled on about some special fertilizer she’d bought for the beds at Kiluna. C.Z. offered an alternative—elephant dung she’d procured from the animal handlers when Barnum & Bailey’s Circus had come to town. Slim alone sat silent, unable to get Leland out of her head. Eventually Marella leaned over to Truman and asked—‘Vero, why are we a party of six at a table for twelve?’
‘Pazienza, Uno… pazienza!’ And with that he checked his watch and looked eagerly toward the entrance. ‘It won’t be long now…’
‘Won’t be long until what?’
‘Until our guests of honor arrive…’
‘I thought I was the guest of honor,’ said Slim.
‘Nope. You’re the most important, but not the “of honor.” Let’s just say it’s more of a dubious honor in this case…’
We—and Slim—stared at the empty chairs, then to the door again.
It was then we each saw Truman’s mischievous grin widen as the door again swung open, and diners froze forks, knives, and conversation, poised to assess…
And there she was. None other than Mrs. Churchill. The infamous Pam Churchill. The newly–wedded Mrs. Leland Hayward. The non-Slim Mrs. Leland Hayward. The slept-with-all-our-husbands Pamela Digby Churchill Hayward, in her wide Balenciaga hat.
We can’t remember which of us, under our breath, said, ‘Oh, Truman!’
Which of us said, ‘How could you?’
From Marella, a low curse, uttered in Italian.
We do know that Slim sat tall, shooting Pam a look that could freeze the Sahara. We know that we felt composed and settled—a strong flock. A unit of solidarity. Babe squeezed Slim’s hand beneath the table.
We have a vague memory of Truman’s face, flushed with delight—a spectator watching a tennis match, swiveling back and forth between wronged wives and husband-hunter.
Our prevailing memory is the look of sheer panic on Pam’s face as she was forced—in front of not just us, but fifty other tables, boasting the most powerful faces in Manhattan—to either retreat, or make that long walk of shame across the packed eatery, in which one might have heard a feather fall.
By the time she reached our table and claimed her empty spot, beads of sweat had formed around that cotton-candy hairline, andon the upper lip, pooling above what we all agreed were truly unfortunate cuspids.
For most shit-stirrers that would have been enough, but given Truman’s talent for public humiliation, no one was surprised (except perhaps Marella) when the last guests appeared.
Our husbands. Mrs. Churchill’s co-conspirators.
One by one, Loel Guinness, Bill Paley, and Gianni Agnelli arrived, forced like Pam to make the interminable walk under the watchful eyes of the Colony. They stopped on the way to our table, pausing to shake important hands along the route. Aware of being observed, they moved with studied swagger. They kissed the cheeks of most of us around the table—with the noted exceptions of Truman and Pam, whose gaze they were careful to avoid. They laughed particularly loudly and talked with amplified zest, all the while checking their watches, plotting their escapes. Each sat for all of five minutes before making their excuses of needing to return to their various offices.
Throughout, Truman kept up the role of the bubbly host, chatting about anything and everything in a thin attempt to disguise what he was really doing… trotting Pam Churchill out in front of Manhattan’s finest and branding her with a big husband-stealing scarlet ‘A’ in the marketplace of the Colony.
Finally—after the Husbands had made their excuses and begged off, one by one, the backs of their suits sheepishly receding, no matter how they pretended otherwise—Slim said to Pam, coolly, ‘So. Is Leland not joining us… ?’
Tru, for his part, quipped, ‘Oh Big Mama, trust me—I invited him.’
Pam, perspiration weeping under our collective gaze, said in a clipped voice—‘Leland decided not to come.’
Slim—in that droll Betty Bacall tone, the tone that Betty got from Slim—‘Well. That seems to be the one smart decision Leland’s made of late.’
PAM LEAVING FIRST was a given. The rest of us divided into pairs, Babe and Marella heading toward Kenneth’s on East 54th, C.Z. and Gloria to Erno Laszlo on West Broadway, hoping to wing appointments. Enjoying the post-mortem at the Colony bar, Slim and Truman washed down a pair of Marco’s special martinis, jabber fueled by absinthe and gin and a feeling of triumph. They giggled recounting the faces of each of the wayward husbands, and even went so far as to ponder what Leland might have done—and what he would say when he heard of the episode.
‘Truheart,’ said Slim through riotous tears, ‘there’s a special place in hell reserved for souls like you…’
‘Yeah, but the point is… didn’t you have fun, making her sweat?’
And Slim, for the first time in weeks, realized that she had.
They laughed so, spurred by martinis and mirth, that Slim could almost forget that the disgraced Mrs. Churchill Hayward had the one thing she most wanted, never to be recovered.
Her sweet, darling Hay, who she’d never stop loving.
WHILE THE REST of us saw this little Colony episode as nothing more than a naughty bit of fun—something to bolster Slim’s flagging ego, something to end the battle that had been waged in New York since the whole ridiculous Hayward–Churchill Fandango began—Marella saw it as something more sinister.
‘Perhaps it’s my English, but when Truman told me all these years that I was his Numero Uno swan… I didn’t know that he called all of us the same.’
‘What do you mean, darling?’ asked Babe as they waited for a taxi.
‘He said it was because of my neck—it being so long. I thought that was just what he called me. I hadn’t realized it was just a word that he used… for us all.’
‘I don’t think that means anything, really.’
‘Cigni… Troppi cigni. Too many swans.’
TWELVE
1954
LAMENTATION
THE BOY IS twenty-nine when his Mama leaves him for good.
She’s tried to cut and run before, has left and returned so many times, in fact, when he finally realizes she’s gone away in earnest, he thinks it another of her wolf-crying stunts.
It’s four days past New Year’s, just after the confetti has been mopped from the gutters in the damp Champs-Élysées—where streamers are trodden underfoot, clinging to stilettos like strands of soggy seaweed.
He is in Paris, with Jack.
His Jac
k.
He is in love—wildly so.
After all that searching, to think that love could be so effortless, so constant…
It makes him want to pinch himself, he so can’t believe his luck. He refrains, however, for fear that in doing so he might alter things—that perfection might suddenly vanish.
They’ve just left Sicily, where they rented a house on a craggy cliff, where each spent mornings writing, then wandered, separately more often than not, down to the ocean to swim. They’d taken turns going to the market while the other reclined on the beach. They reconvened at midday and prepared simple lunches of olives, ripe tomatoes, and fresh-grilled redfish.
‘When two people are as close as we are,’ the boy will later report, ‘you don’t need to be together every second. You’re together even when you’re not.’
Afternoons were devoted to writing—Jack working on a play; the boy in the early stages of inventing a girl called Holiday Golightly. Part Nina, part Bang-Bang Woodward—an amalgamation of about a dozen girls he knew. Perhaps closest to the truth, Holly is the Siamese twin of her creator. Those of us who know him will find we cannot read her without hearing his Southern squeal speaking her dialogue, a whimsical hillbilly. A genuine phony—a wannabe, hanging on the fringes, who, like the author himself, turns to visits to Tiffany’s to escape what they both call the Mean Reds.
The Mean Reds are infinitely worse than the blues, and something the boy knows well—although Jack has cured him of the malady almost entirely. His deep voice, bare chest, and the sure shuffle of his footsteps have replaced silver breakfast sets and alligator wallets as tonic.
The boy has committed himself to fiction once again, having just finished writing Beat the Devil, the Bogart picture— saving it more like, ever the pocket Merlin, Nelle having spotted perhaps his greatest talent early on. He’d been asked by Big John Huston to work his magic on a picture with no script, flailing its way through production. The tow-haired scribe was sent back to his monastic room each evening to create the following day’s scenes from scratch. This he achieved ‘by the hair on his chinny chin chin’—though we later tell him the expression rings false, he being far too prepubescent to grow facial hair of any sort.
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