The Swans of Fifth Avenue(11)

Betsey divorced Roosevelt. Then Minnie started her affair with Vincent Astor. The Cushing girls were truly in New York now—appearing at all the nightclubs, the charity functions. Gogsie didn’t much like this, at first—Mother Cushing was Victorian, you see. From the time when a lady did not go out, get photographed, have her name in the papers. But this was in the forties when Café Society was really in, of course. Cholly Knickerbocker’s column—if you wanted a man, a real catch, as those girls did—as they were brought up to do!—you had to be seen in the right places, be in the newspapers. So those girls stuck together, and brother, what an entrance they made! The three of them entering the Stork Club—Golly! What a sight! Regal Betsey, the former Roosevelt; tall, kind Minnie, whom everyone knew was sleeping with Vincent Astor on top of simply piles and piles of money. And Babe. The beautiful, sweet Babe, whom I’ve never heard say a cruel word about anybody. And in New York! Babe was always wearing the latest fashions, not that she could afford them; brother, she could not! Pops Cushing lost all his money in the Crash. But Babe was given these gorgeous clothes by simply everyone, because she made exquisite clothes look heavenly and they all wanted her to wear their fashions, knowing they’d be photographed and in the newspapers. Babe even worked here at the Bazaar, for a time, then at Vogue—as a fashion editor. She was quite the little career girl. She even had an affair or two—I do sometimes think she was happiest then. She took her work very seriously, unlike most of those society girls who are hired just for their names and connections. Babe had those, of course, but she worked hard, that girl. She went on shoots, modeled some herself. But with Gogs pulling the strings, it was only a matter of time before Babe married, too. And she did, to young Stanley Mortimer. Standard Oil heir. Tuxedo Park—you know, that true old-money Protestant background, good golly!

And Babe quit her job then, and had two children. Gogs finally threatened Vincent Astor, and he married Minnie. Then Betsey got the catch of them all—Jock Whitney! So Gogs had a Mortimer, an Astor, and a Vanderbilt-Whitney in the family.

Then Babe divorced Stanley Mortimer. Well, she had to! He came back from the war an absolute wreck! Not that he was all right even before. There were rumors that he hit her, plus all his money was tied up in trust, which Babe didn’t know before the marriage. But Babe, true to her mother’s training, never let on. Those girls were bred, you see. Bred! Like show horses! Appearance matters most. Loyal families. No troubles. Stick together, put on a happy—perfectly made-up—face! Never air your dirty laundry. So you’d see Babe, impeccably dressed, so beautiful, going about as usual, but still, there was a sadness in her eyes—

(“I see it still,” Truman whispered.)

(“Well, she has pots of money now and I’ve never heard of Bill hitting her, so I don’t know why,” Diana scoffed.)

Anyway, divorce. I really think Gogs did not approve of divorce, and yet all three of her daughters have had one. Gogs probably thought, Well, if I had to put up with a sorry old so-and-so who never cared about me except for how I ran his house and made him comfortable, so can they! But those sisters are more modern, of course. And in the end, except for Minnie, they each traded up—Cadillac for Rolls-Royce! Betsey traded a Roosevelt for a Whitney and all that divine cash. And Babe, well—good God! William S. Paley! He runs everything—the world! Of course, he’s Jewish. That’s the puzzling thing. Babe, marrying a Jew. It killed her mother, truly. Poor old Gogs died a couple years after. Oh, by then I think she was reconciled to the money—good God, who wouldn’t be? Rich as Croesus, Paley is! But the Jewish thing…well. But Babe doesn’t mind. I think she takes it as a challenge. You don’t want us? Well, then we’ll make our own society, even better. And she has! Although she was dropped off the Social Register, of course, tout de suite. And there are clubs that simply won’t have them. But Babe is determined. Rot in hell, those who won’t have us! Although Babe would never say such a thing. Too well bred. Too damn nice.

After Gogs died, Minnie divorced Astor. Well, who wouldn’t, really, except for all that money? Vincent Astor was one cold fish, only interested in his toy railroads, if you can believe that! True to form, though, Minnie found him his next wife before she left. Those women do know how to take care of their men! Now Minnie’s married to Jim Fosburgh, the artist. Although he’s queer, isn’t he? You would know.

“Darling Mrs. Vreeland,” Truman cooed, with just a hint of ice behind his lisp. “As I told you, we are not all members of one big club. Believe it or not, I do not know the name, rank, and serial number of every homosexual in Manhattan.”

“But you do know about Jim Fosburgh, don’t you?” Diana asked serenely.

Truman sighed. “Yes, I do. He is.”

“Of course. I think Minnie’s a bit of a lez, too, if you ask me. But that breeding and training. Never would she admit it, probably not even to herself.”

“I have no patience for people like that,” Truman snapped.

Diana looked at him, her eyes gleaming in admiration. “No, I see. True to yourself, that’s who you are, Truman. And God bless you. You are a champion! Now, when are you going to give us another story here at the Bazaar? You know I don’t run that particular show—God, I barely even read!—but circulation is always up when we run one of yours.”

“Darling, you’ll be the first to know. In fact, I’m working on something now. A delicious story. But I’m not going to share a word of it yet. It’s too soon.” He rose, stretched, way up on his tiptoes, glimpses of his crimson socks peeking out beneath the turned-up hem of his plaid pants. He wrapped a scarlet scarf around his throat with a flourish. Then he leapt around the desk to hug Mrs. Vreeland, who did not generally allow hugs, but with Truman, of course, exceptions were made.