The Swans of Fifth Avenue(31)

He didn’t think so.

The sandwich now assembled, Bill closed his eyes, almost in reverence. His big white teeth bit into the crusty, yet doughy bread; he savored the bracing crunchiness of onion, the saltiness of the salami, the thick brown tang of the mustard. He chewed and chewed, spilling crumbs everywhere, pausing now and then to pick them up with his greasy fingers, licking them between bites.

And when he was finished, when his hands were dripping with oil and mustard, littered with crumbs, his stomach temporarily silenced, he remembered that there would be food tonight at the party; Babe had promised him that, reminding him before he left for work in the morning. “Don’t worry, darling, I’ll take care of you. We’ll have something more substantial than party food!”

And now he wasn’t even hungry!

Bill consulted his watch, picked up the phone on his desk, and called his driver. Then he went into his private dressing room; no mere executive bathroom, but a real dressing room with rows of extra suits and shirts and ties. Quickly he shed one wrinkled shirt—he merely dropped it on the floor, never for a second wondering who might pick it up and have it laundered—for a fresh one and put on a different suit jacket, tied a new tie. He splashed some water on his face, combed his hair—cut closer than he used to wear it, to disguise the thinning—and then strode out of his office toward an elevator at the end of the hall. His secretary called out a sincere “Good night, Mr. Paley!” and before him, dozens of other secretaries and vice presidents and directors scraped and bowed, raising hats, wishing him the fondest of good nights.

Bill didn’t even notice them. He was thinking of the evening ahead, and gritting his teeth until he realized, with a jolt, that despite the ordeal before him, he was looking forward to seeing Truman. Even though he’d seen him last weekend and would see him this one coming up.

And he hadn’t had a friend like that in—well, had he ever? Someone whose company he truly enjoyed, who didn’t bring with him any headaches, past or present (like Murrow now; Ed used to be the debonair, bon vivant reminder of the glamorous war years when he and CBS were the voice of the war, of dashing correspondents, righteousness, bravery. Now Ed’s very presence only reminded him of angry sponsors and President Eisenhower calling him on the phone, asking him why one of his own employees—the face of CBS News, no less—was so intent on being a Pinko?).

So where once he and Ed Murrow had dined at Claridge’s while the bombs rained down on London, toasting to the triumph of good over evil and bedding grateful English girls—including Pam Churchill, that tasty little British dish—now he and Truman Capote hobnobbed in Manhattan. With Babe, of course; Bill had to forcibly remind himself of his wife’s presence tonight. She would look beautiful, as always. Tall and elegant and coolly perfect. An asset, just as prized as the new Picasso he’d hung in the foyer of the St. Regis pied-à-terre. Just as valuable. Just as essential to his sense of self.

Bill suddenly remembered the sandwich. Did he have any bits of salami stuck between his teeth? He peered at himself in the mirrored elevator wall, baring his teeth, as the uniformed elevator boy tactfully examined his polished black shoes. No, nothing amiss. He looked good—and not just for his age, fifty-seven this year. He was still tall, no sloped shoulders, still flat of stomach although no one who saw how viciously he ate could ever understand how. He still had that grin; that devouring, yet boyishly infectious grin. He looked good. Damn good.

Hmm. Maybe that friend of Truman’s that he’d met at another one of these parties, that cute little Carol Marcus, would be there tonight. She was a blond cream puff, a Marilyn look-alike, just his type. Bill grinned, thinking about pink, pert nipples against creamy, filmy silk, writhing hips beneath his hands, softness, suppleness, buoyant boobs slapping against his chest—

And just like that, Bill Paley was hungry again.

—

“BILL! HAVE YOU EVER SEEN anything like this?” Truman approached him, a martini in one hand, a cigarette in the other. He was red of face, flustered, sweat plastering his thinning hair to his forehead. But he surveyed the room with the satisfaction of a potentate. “Oh, I love the Plaza, don’t you? It’s my favorite place on earth. I just adore how even the bellhops look down their noses at you, as if you might take a shit in the potted plants. How wonderful of Babe to throw me this little shindig!”

“You deserve it, even though I don’t want to think about what this little shindig is costing me. What’s the new book called again?” Bill downed the last warm drops of watered-down bourbon and signaled for a fresh glass. One magically appeared.

“It’s a novella. Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Random House published it while I was in Europe, but what a nice treat to come home to. And Babe, of course—she simply insisted on throwing this little fete, even as I begged her not to.” Truman shook his head, but he did not appear to be too put out.

This little fete was taking place in the Oak Room at the Plaza; for Mrs. William S. Paley and her friend, the bestselling author Truman Capote, naturally management had closed it to the public on this night. The vaulted ceilings, the gleaming oak walls, the heavy square bar at the end of the room; the old baronial atmosphere of the place was lightened somewhat by cozy little round tables filled with flowers and copies of Truman’s book. The red cover, emblazoned with the words Breakfast at Tiffany’s, a Short Novel, and Three Other Stories by Truman Capote—Bill could see a copy of it wherever he looked, for Babe had bought out Brentano’s. Bennett and Phyllis Cerf, holding court at the other end of the room, must be counting the profits even while they were making small talk.