The Swans of Fifth Avenue(34)
Babe blushed, a rarity. Bill could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen his wife blush, and each one was because of Truman. With Bill, she was so composed, always. Composed, and dignified, and untouchable. Impervious to abandonment or real emotion.
But that little blonde…now, there was a woman who a man—a real man, like Bill Paley, not some little homo like Truman Capote—could make blush. Pretty pink, from her cheeks to her little round—
“Bill, dear, I know you must be famished. They’ll bring in a buffet in a moment, full of your favorites, I made sure of it. I also reserved a table for you and for Jock and Betsey, so you don’t have to talk to anyone you don’t want to—”
“Never mind. I’m not hungry. And I think I’ll disappear now, Babe. I had a hard day.”
Bill, his eyes following that little blonde as she sashayed her way around the room, did not even glance at his wife’s face. “Truman, will you see Babe home? I give her to you. For now. And congratulations again. I’m sure it’s a terrific book, and Babe will make me read it someday.”
Truman laughed and grasped Bill’s hand in his own surprisingly strong grip. Babe, after an imperceptible intake of breath, kissed her husband on the cheek and whispered sincerely, a worried expression in her brown eyes, “You go home and go right to bed, poor darling! I’ll sleep in the drawing room when I come in, so I won’t disturb you.” Then she watched her husband stride through the room, his arms swinging in that commanding way of his, his grin, as he was greeted by everyone in his path, incandescent enough to light the room all by itself.
Truman turned Babe around, toward the bartender, just in time. Just in time for her not to see Bill Paley follow a writhing, red-satin-clad bottom out of the Oak Room of the Plaza.
“Now the fun will really start,” he whispered in her ear, delighted to see her wary eyes turn girlish, just at the promise of his voice. “Now we’ll have the best time ever, just the two of us!”
And Babe, hastily erasing the frown that had puckered her forehead, put her hand in Truman’s, trusting him.
Bill didn’t give either of them another thought. He was too busy convincing the little blonde to go upstairs, allowing her her maidenly protests, playing the game as well as any other man in his position, with his wealth, his appetites, his power. It didn’t take very long.
It never did.
CHAPTER 9
…..
Babe was up before Bill the next morning, as usual. After a short but heavenly night’s sleep on the drawing room sofa (she’d been able to take her teeth out, thank the Lord!), she’d risen with the sun, determined to call her florist’s private number and arrange a special early delivery. Then she’d rushed into the bathroom, made up her face, and rung for some coffee, delivered to her, naturally, by St. Regis room service, the waiter pushing in a mahogany cart with her own Wedgwood coffeepot and cup and saucer, and a silver vase with a peony in it, not a rose. As soon as she and Bill redecorated this small apartment and made it their city residence, she’d gone down to the kitchen and introduced herself to all the staff, thanking them in advance for their care and consideration. And asking them, if they pleased, never to put a rose on her tray. They understood, surely, that she and Bill wanted to think of this as a real home, not a hotel, and she so looked forward to doing just that, with their help.
And of course, she asked her secretary to record all their birthdays, and she never missed a one, sending a card with a little extra gift of money to each. She and Bill both were generous tippers, each week sending out little envelopes full of cash to those who made their lives easier. When she was out shopping, she often brought something back—something small, like a flattering lipstick or a silk-flower pin or a cigarette case—for a maid, or a particularly attentive bellman.
Thus, the peony and her own china, not the official St. Regis pattern. And the newspapers ironed, without her even having to ask.
“Thank you so much,” she told the waiter, a new boy with a complexion like a lobster, so skinny his Adam’s apple was as pronounced as his nose. “Andrew, isn’t it? I so appreciate it.”
And Andrew—Andy to his friends and family, but not here, not at the St. Regis where nicknames were not allowed—blushed, his face turning even more mottled and scarlet; he tripped over his own comically large feet on the way out, and thought to himself, as he took the service elevator back down to the kitchen, that he’d never seen a more beautiful gal than Mrs. Paley first thing in the morning. He thought of his own mother, probably just getting up in their apartment in Queens. In her scruffy old quilted housecoat, her hair still in curlers, no makeup on, her eyes puffy from sleep, creases on her face as if she’d slept on chicken wire instead of a lumpy mattress. Drinking her coffee out of a heavy mug while she watched the small TV in the kitchen, picking away at the chipped Formica on the table.
But Mrs. Paley! She looked as if she didn’t need sleep at all! She was wearing some kind of silk gown with a tie around her waist, and slippers that looked like real shoes, only with little puffs of fur on the end, and her hair was all done, and he thought, although he wasn’t sure—because he never could tell about these things, just ask his girlfriend, Sue—that she even had lipstick on. And her eyes weren’t the least bit red and puffy, not at all! Not a crease of sleep on her face, either.