Sylvia seemed to live within herself, dreamily, unconnectedly, yet she was an impeccable hostess and lover of the arts, understandably drawn to a seductive talent like Joe’s. David Ormsby-Gore was naturally outgoing as well as appropriately diplomatic and ambassadorial. He was extremely sweet to me, walking me through the splendid halls with their slim, honey-grey marble pillars, gilded chandeliers and the statutory photograph of the Queen on a marble-top table. I felt able to be myself with him, enjoyably, while sensing at the same time that he was under pressure. I imagined some burdensome top-secret duties and thought of Walter’s question to Pierre Salinger.
David excused himself early from lunch and was nowhere to be seen till the dinner party. I’d taken myself off to the National Gallery of Art in the afternoon, fired up by Walter, and had stood for a long time in front of two paintings, a Leonardo da Vinci portrait, Ginevra de’ Benci, and Vermeer’s Woman Holding a Balance. They’d made me feel suspended, remote from the chaos of modern life, encased in their enduring beauty.
Twenty-two to dinner, we sat at a long table laid with gold-embossed plates and four sparkling glasses at each place setting. The flowers were softly arranged. I’d worn a fitted emerald-lace cocktail dress that Joan said suited my fair hair and I was aglow with adrenaline, pinching myself. David had told me over drinks that we were having supper at the White House the next night. Very informal, he said, just the Kennedys and us.
I was seated at dinner between an elderly Senator and the Secretary of the Interior, Stewart Udall, who was a delight. He had dark, tight-cropped hair, and an elongated face. Fervent about conservation, he was writing a book about the overuse of natural resources and the dangers of pollution, and he spoke as well, with great enthusiasm, about his home state of Arizona. He also told me, rivetingly, about having just been on a tour of the Soviet Union and summoned unexpectedly to a meeting with Khrushchev. ‘It was an eye-opener,’ Secretary Udall said. ‘Khrushchev was hardly God’s gift to good manners. He seemed only to want to tell me of their intention to “swat our ass”. I’d like to see them try!’
The Senator on my left was more uphill company, a crumbly old codger, slow of speech. He began most sentences with ‘When I was a boy . . .’ and revealed some unpleasantly prejudiced views on civil rights. I was reminded of Ella Fitzgerald’s neighbours in Beverly Hills.
Lunch next day was for twenty, much less formal, in a bright panelled room overlooking the garden. It was a balmy sunny day, very warm; I’d worn an apricot halter-neck dress, glad of Joan’s weathervane advice, and loved the feel of bare arms. Matt was next to me, a shy Embassy diplomat on my other side whom I talked to during a first course of minty chilled cucumber soup. The audible chink of spoons on fine china was slightly embarrassing till the conversation got going.
Joe’s plane wasn’t due in till five, and I realised Matt must have known this, since he’d wanted to take me out in the afternoon. I felt childishly resentful about Joe arriving just in time to make the White House supper when he had Tuesday’s glamorous formal dance to go to as well. And the thought, as I turned from the polite diplomat to talk to Matt, made me smile more warmly than was possibly wise.
For a Bostonian, Matt had an oddly Southern lilt to his voice and I asked about it.
‘My mother was originally from Hot Springs, Arkansas – Al Capone territory. It’s where he and his like used to hole up in Prohibition days. It was a very open place.’
‘What does that mean?’ I asked, conscious of his eyes on my bare arms.
He transferred his gaze. ‘They could buy off anyone. They made it what it is, though – the park, all the amenities, with their ill-gotten gains. You look very lovely,’ he said. I batted that away and steered the conversation back to American history.
After an amazing hot chocolate soufflé, liquid in the middle, perfect – I couldn’t resist a small helping – we had coffee outside on a terrace that presided over a fragrant rose-garden. I mingled a bit, but Matt sought me out. ‘I told Lady Ormsby-Gore I was going to ask if you’d like to go to a gallery and she thought it a very good idea. You will come out for a bit?’
‘It’s terrifically kind, but I think I’d better not. I went to the National Gallery yesterday actually, and I’m sure you’re busy, Pierre keeping you at it all hours.’
‘He sure does, but it’s Sunday! Come for another quick spin – Georgetown perhaps? You’ll love it.’ He was hard to refuse with his freckles and naughty-boyish grin.
His car was really quite something. And I loved seeing Georgetown’s buzzy Main Street and the residential quarter as well, whose small gracious squares and tree-lined streets were home to the political elite.
‘Kennedy left for his inauguration from his Georgetown townhouse,’ Matt said. ‘He lived here both as congressman and senator, and Jackie gave parties for everyone who mattered.’ I decided not to mention supper at the White House that night; it felt private, somehow. ‘Come for a cup of English tea,’ Matt smiled. ‘My apartment’s not far, it’s a condo on Thirty-first, just round the corner.’
‘I’d love to go to one of those fun cafés on Main Street.’
He looked openly dashed. ‘Can’t I entertain you at home? I promise to be good.’
‘Then you won’t mind if it’s a café instead.’ He had the grace to smile.
We went to a coffee shop and ice-cream parlour with white wrought-iron tables and potted palms. Matt ordered coffee and a black tea for me. ‘It’s what we call English tea here.’ He grinned; his foot touched mine. ‘Tell me about the photographers you work for. Don’t they all try to get you to bed? You’re out here on your own, after all.’
‘No more than anyone else. I’m married and they’re hardworking professionals.’
‘But you’re not with your husband much – you weren’t in the summer either.’
‘Where? What do you mean?’ I stared at Matt, feeling knocked off-course. Trembling.
‘In August – you weren’t with him: you didn’t go, too. Sorry, it’s just that I’d seen the guest list, felt things must be a bit rocky. I’ve no business interfering. Forgive me.’
‘Go where, though? What guest list?’ I was sure Joe had been in Italy, having seen the television footage, but I still needed it spelled out and the salt rubbed in.
Matt looked quite shocked. ‘Italy, the villa – Jackie’s holiday. Didn’t you know?’
‘Not exactly. I was having a baby. I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind.’
‘Sure. Will you, though, even just think about letting me take you out in New York?’
I hardly heard him. My mind felt bruised. Gil was in it, Joe making it hurt sorely. Thinking back to all the heartache, not knowing where Joe was, the suspicions and now the confirmation – it had all been about dallying with Jackie.
Matt, fun, attractive, in the know, was offering solace – sex on a plate – and Gil wanted me to get over him with other men. But casual sex? Not Gil’s best idea, not a good idea at all. I said to Matt, ‘I’ll think about it – and thanks, I’ve had a lovely time.’
‘That’s progress,’ he said, ‘of a sort.’ He paid and slid his arm through mine as we left for his car. When we reached it he kissed me, leaning me back against the passenger door.
Joe’s plane was late and he was in a flying panic; speed shaving, firing questions about the weekend he’d just missed, throwing on a clean shirt, rushing me. I’d changed into a black linen dress with a scooped white collar, ‘smart day’ to Joan, but not to me. I longed for Bella news but Joe was too mad keen to get on, splashing himself with some classy smell – Hermès, that he’d never have bought for himself. No good thinking like that, I hadn’t got a moral leg to stand on. I’d kissed two men in a week.
We drove to the White House in the Ambassadorial car, David and Joe on the jump seats. The Ambassador’s car helped smooth the security checks and we were soon in the building, via a side entrance. Jackie came to meet us, wearing a cyclamen-pink dress with cap sleeves, very neat and slim-
looking. ‘I don’t suppose,’ Joe said, easy and relaxed with her, ‘you can whizz us wide-eyed Brits on a whistle-stop tour of the staterooms, just a very quick peek?’ She smiled, looking pleased and proud.
We saw the East Room first, huge and formal. It had a vast grand piano whose eagle supports Franklin Roosevelt had designed himself. ‘The portrait of George Washington is by Gilbert Stuart,’ Jackie said, ‘who called Washington a very apathetic sitter, but captured him most famously.’ She showed us the Red Room, lined in red silk and with a powerfully atmospheric Civil War painting, followed by the Blue and Green Rooms. She pointed out the President Monroe candelabra – pairs of them in every room, he’d certainly been keen on candlelight – and a French Empire consul table, presented to the White House by Napoleon’s brother Joseph, that had led to a whole Empire theme.
We went up to the second floor, the Kennedys’ private living space, and had drinks in a softly lit sitting room with a comfy family feel. Debo Devonshire arrived, she’d been elsewhere that day; we were on a second drink, though, by the time Jack appeared. ‘How’s the “heavy cold”?’ Debo asked dryly. David whispered to me that Jack had used the excuse of a cold to cut short a Midwest campaigning trip: he’d had to get back rather urgently. That sounded pretty important and Walter’s question to Pierre Salinger clicked in again. I looked at Jack in a sombre dark suit, shuffling his hands; he had bags under his eyes that only added to his charismatic force.
I sat next to him at dinner. Debo was on his right, David on my left; Joe was between Jackie and Sylvia. The lighting was again subdued, only from candles on the table. A waiter served us with shrimps in a dark tomato-red sauce, deliciously sharp and peppery-hot. ‘It’s fresh horseradish that gives it that special tang,’ David said.
Jack turned from Debo as the first course was being cleared and gave me his concentrated attention. ‘Good to have you here, great. How’s the modelling going? Eileen Ford knows what she’s doing, getting you over, with those Nordic looks of yours.’ He grinned, full on, full focus, and gave me no time to reply. I hoped I wasn’t being as open-mouthed as a goldfish, but he knew how to turn it on. ‘I’m interested in the techniques of fashion photography,’ Jack said, ‘British photographers are way ahead. I saw a spread on Celia Hammond, think it was in Queen, or it could have been Vogue, and it really pushed the boundaries.’ A faint buzz sounded near the window, a transferred telephone-call tone. Jack was instantly on his feet. ‘She a friend of yours, Celia Hammond?’ he said, still talking as he went to take the call. ‘She should come over, too.’
I’d turned and saw him make for a small curved telephone on a corner table. He spoke into the mouthpiece, very abrupt and staccato. ‘Yes? Yep. Yep. Okay.’ He kept listening, looking intently at the floor. Then he took the telephone behind the curtain where I presumed there was a window seat or place to stand.
‘Eileen’s a strict headmistress, I hear,’ he said, returning after a couple of minutes and pulling in his chair. ‘Keeps you under the rod. Early to bed – she doesn’t like parties.’
‘She tires us out by day,’ I said with a grin. ‘But American photographers are just as creative, I think. Penn especially. And Avedon certainly pushes boundaries.’
A dark-suited man slipped into the room and spoke to the President. David beside me stiffened, keenly interested; as Ambassador and friend he’d know what was going on.
The telephone buzzed again and Jack rose swiftly. I half-turned, couldn’t help being inquisitive, and heard him say before disappearing behind the curtain, ‘How big is it?’ I felt a pinprick, a spine-tingle of fear as well as curiosity.
At the table we got on with our fried chicken. Joe was being amusing about his schoolmaster bit-part role in the film and Jack soon returned, picking up our conversation again with flirty eyes. ‘Aren’t you petrified of Diana Vreeland? I met her once and she scared the pants off me, with that mile-long cigarette-holder, blood-red lips and nails.’ He was an avalanche of power-fuelled magnetism. I couldn’t have escaped its path.
The telephone kept buzzing. Did this always go on at every meal? He was up and down, hardly managing a mouthful between calls, yet seemed able to switch from work to play like a flipped penny. I was in stupefied awe. ‘They say Joe’s mesmeric on stage,’ Jack said, ‘you must be very proud. Hey, Joe,’ he called over. ‘You know Beyond the Fringe opens on Broadway this week? It’ll hit big. People lap up that sort of satire. It’s like caricatures, they love the debunking of authority, especially politicians.’
‘They’re a class act,’ Joe said, ‘a bit slapstick, even surrealistic humour at times, but Peter Cook taking off the Prime Minister, that slurring voice, it’s genius!’
Another telephone call, another interruption. Slices of squidgy chocolate cake were served. Back beside me once more, Jack stared down at the table. I tried to catch Joe’s eye, but he was talking animatedly to Jackie, waving his fork, making her smile.
She’d just taken a mouthful of cake when Jack stood up abruptly and made for the door. A waiter hurriedly opened it for him. It seemed slightly odd and rude, though I recalled reading that Heads of State always leave a room first – perhaps it was simply that. The conversation was rather desultory in his absence; we picked at the gooey cake, Jackie’s remained untouched. She soon rose and led the way to the sitting room.
Jack was there, on the telephone – giving orders about appointments the next day. He sat back afterwards, lighting a long cigar, baring his teeth on the first puff, almost as though disliking the taste or the pungent tobacco smell. I thought of Gil, drawing on his cigar and sticking it, still wet from his mouth, into mine. I hurt inside. Would he really come to London to see me?
‘Let’s have some Sellers,’ Jack said, his distinctive voice cutting into the low drone of murmured conversation. ‘The Songs for Swingin’ Sellers album. The “Lord Badminton’s Memoirs” track is a gas – and the My Fair Lady in Indian skit cracks me up.’
Jackie went to the turntable, put on the LP and we were soon in stitches. Was I really in the White House, watching JFK lounging about, hooting with laughter? He started recounting a Sellers’ take-off of ‘Uncle Harold’ at a White House dinner, on the Prime Minister’s last visit. ‘I’m not so sure he found it funny,’ Jack chuckled. Then he stood up, said, ‘Good night, good night,’ with a hand partly raised and strode out of the room.
At Washington National airport next morning, waiting to board the shuttle for New York, hordes of people were arriving or leaving, beginning the working week. Whether coming or going, they crowded round the news-stand. Every newspaper’s front page bore the word CRISIS, big and bold in the headline. I bought the New York Times.
There was an atmosphere of crisis in Washington last night as President Kennedy and top Administration Officials were in almost constant conference. In the Caribbean, the Navy and Marine Corps were staging a powerful show of force not far from Cuba . . .
I read on. There was a mention of a missile. I thought of Jack saying, ‘How big is it?’ A Pentagon spokesman was quoted as denying that Cuba was the cause of the crisis. I couldn’t take it all in. On the plane the constant rustle of newspapers sounded like a rattlesnake’s warning. I sensed people all around me feeling disturbed and threatened.
In Manhattan, walking a few blocks to a studio, the air of tension was unmistakable. And returning to the Ferrones’ apartment in the evening I found Walter as grim-faced as I’d ever seen him.
‘Pierre Salinger made an announcement at noon today,’ he said. ‘The President’s speaking on television shortly, addressing the nation on “A subject of the highest national urgency”. It’s scheduled for seven o’clock, half an hour’s time.’
We didn’t speculate. We three, Joan looking older than her years, sat rigid in our seats, waiting and watching the clock. Seven o’clock came. Jack was in his office, the furled Stars and Stripes flag behind him. His voice was calm; he looked out to camera as he found the rhythm and was into his speaking stride. ‘. . . The c
losest surveillance of the Soviet military build-up on the island of Cuba . . . Evidence of offensive missile sites . . . a nuclear strike capability against the Western Hemisphere . . .’ He spoke of enforcing a blockade and said that aggressive conduct allowed to go unchallenged, ultimately led to war. Their goal was not the victory of might, but the vindication of right.
It was a shocking bombshell. I’d only very briefly mentioned last night’s dinner at the White House to Walter and Joan, and told them a little more, about sitting next to Jack and all the calls. I marvelled disbelievingly at his ability to be there at all, to have carried on with a casual supper with friends while taking monumental decisions; surely it would have gone by the board?
‘Well, the poor man has to eat,’ Joan said, which, on that frightening evening, on the brink of a possible nuclear war, had we three breaking out in laughter.
Chapter 20
October 1962–May 1963
I woke from a bad dream shaking, feeling the sweat cold and damp on my face. It was about Bella, horrible, ghastly. She was a tiny swaddled bundle, tight-wrapped in a white cotton blanket – airy with holes, the sort the maternity wards used – and being hurled in the air by two men who had glittering eyes and stubbly chins. They were laughing, seeing how high and how far they could throw her, as though playing some heartless ballgame. I was running towards them along a path, screaming hysterically, ‘Stop, stop!’ when one of them hurled her so high that she spiralled off over a beautiful silver sea – higher, higher. The pitiful screams of a very small baby were piercing, slicing my heart until they faded to silence and she became the faintest tiny pinprick in the sky.
My pulse calmed. It was only a dream, but I still had an irrational urge to call home, a need to set my mind at rest. With the five-hour time difference it would be lunchtime and Miss Hadley should be home, not gossiping with other nannies in the park.
She sounded guarded, which didn’t help my nerves. ‘I was in need of a little update,’ I said cheerily, ‘missing Bella madly. Is she sleeping okay? Are you having better nights?’
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