The Swans of Fifth Avenue(33)
Just like Hitler, just like the Nazis, just like the Japs.
Today, the enemy wasn’t so clear. Sometimes Bill was just so heartily sick of all he had to contend with: instilling loyalty oaths, a few years back. God, Ed Murrow had given him an earful about that. There were Commies, Pinkos, those Rosenbergs, giving him one more reason to try to forget he was a Jew. There were always problems with affiliates, griping about the programming; there were always sponsors threatening to withdraw (like Alcoa, pulling out of See It Now). Color television—well, he’d lost that battle. David Sarnoff and RCA won. It was their technology, not CBS’s, that the government determined to be the industry standard.
“I like the show, Truman, that’s all. It appeals to me, for reasons I’m sure you’ll never understand.”
But Truman surprised him. Truman always managed to surprise him.
“Bill, I am the last person on this earth who would criticize your taste. I believe that the most creative, forward-thinking personalities are those with a healthy dose of lowbrow, mixed with highbrow. That’s your genius. As it is mine, I’m not too modest to say. Modesty bores me. I hate people who act coy. Just come right out and say it, if you believe it—I’m the greatest. I’m the cat’s pajamas. I’m it!” And Truman clinked his own glass—a martini—against Bill’s. “So are you, Bill Paley. You are it. We both are. Two titans, astride their world.”
Bill grinned and relaxed. He had to hand it to Truman; he was the only fairy in New York who knew how to talk to men. Real men.
“Oh, Truman, you naughty, naughty boy!” A dishy blonde—not that Carol, but someone who looked a lot like her—wriggled up to them. She was wearing a very low-cut, very tight red satin dress. Immediately, Bill thought that if Babe saw her, she’d wrinkle her nose and decide the fabric was too shiny, the cut too extreme, the overall effect cheap. Sometimes he couldn’t help but see women through his wife’s superior eyes, but it never clouded his overall vision.
“What, Mona?” Truman gazed at the girl with a calm, bemused expression.
“You know, she’s me! I mean, I! Holly Golightly! I’m her! I know you based her on me!”
“Mona, my dearest, most vapid girl, I assure you that I did not. Holly Golightly is entirely my own creation.”
“Oh, no!” The girl inched closer, and looked up at Bill. Her eyes widened, and she squirmed, as if someone had just dropped an ice cube down her back. “Now, I want you to tell this gorgeous man here—”
“Bill Paley, Mona Cartwright. Mona Cartwright, Bill Paley.”
“Oooh! So nice to meet you, Mr. Paley! Anyway, Tru-Tru, I want you to tell Mr. Paley that I am the model for Holly Golightly! The things I’ve told you, over too many cocktails—and then I read them on the pages of your story! The South American—that Brazilian! You know I told you all about that!”
“Mona, you may believe what you like. If it helps you sleep at night, by all means, go to bed thinking you’re Holly Golightly. Now, be a good little Marilyn and wriggle off somewhere else.”
“Truman!” Mona leaned over to kiss Truman on the cheek—and flash Bill her creamy, heaving cleavage. Then she did sashay off, with only one sleepy-lidded backward glance.
“Honestly.” Truman turned to Bill with a chuckle. Even a less keen observer of the human condition than Truman Capote couldn’t have helped to notice the hunger, the desire, in Bill Paley’s eyes as they followed the blonde through her maneuvers. Truman noted, but made no reference to it. He simply stored it away. For now.
“Everyone wants to be in a book,” he drawled exaggeratedly. “I’ve simply been deluged by women who believe they’re the model for Holly. Carol Marcus, Gloria Vanderbilt, Gloria Guinness, Marella, Slim, even. They all think that some part of Holly is based on them.”
“I don’t want to be in a book,” Bill said with a grunt. “I have no desire. I think it would be terrible, actually. To have people read something and think it’s about you.”
“Well, you’re an exception, then.”
“An exception to what?” Babe had suddenly inserted herself between her husband and her friend. With one arm behind Bill’s back and the other tucked into Truman’s arm, she surveyed her party with a beatific, satisfied smile.
“An exception to mere mortals. Bill, that is. He claims he’d hate to be written about in a book.”
“Oh, Bill!” Babe tilted her impeccable head up to him and laughed. She was exceptionally beautiful tonight; she seemed to have her own spotlight following her around, illuminating her features, making her eyes even darker, her cheekbones even more pronounced, her hair even silkier. Just to look at her—Bill smiled the satisfied grin of ownership; Truman, the incredulous grin of appreciation. Their gazes met behind Babe’s back; Bill’s eyes widened, as did Truman’s. So they had something else in common, too.
“But I think he’s right,” Babe continued, unaware of the slight jousting occurring on either side (Bill’s arm encircled her waist; Truman gripped her arm more tightly). “I would detest being in a book. Promise me that, Truman? Promise me you won’t ever do that? I know every woman here tonight thinks she’s Holly Golightly. But I—” And she shuddered.
“I don’t know how I could,” Truman said, and he knew it to be honest and true, as honest and true as Holly Golightly herself. “Any words of mine could never do you justice, Babe, dear.”