The Swans of Fifth Avenue(36)

And then Bill raised his head above the sycophants and saw her, Babe, standing tall beneath a chandelier, a silver fox stole over her shoulders, and he chose her. She saw it in his eyes, the way they widened, the way his shoulders squared, his head snapped up, and there was nothing more she wanted but to be possessed by him, reassured of her worth in a world where feminine beauty and refinement were currency. Someone whispered that he was Jewish, but in that heady moment of being acquired by someone as powerful and handsome and wealthy as he was, it didn’t matter. Or—perhaps it did; her mother had picked out Stanley Mortimer. Gogs would never have picked out Bill Paley. That was Babe’s decision alone; perhaps the first she’d made in her life.

But was that love?

She hurt when Bill hurt, that was true. Once, she’d walked over to a new swim club being built across the road from Kiluna North, in lily-white New Hampshire. She thought the children could join; it would do them good to make friends. She introduced herself as Mrs. William S. Paley, filled out the forms, was polite and sincere in her hope that the Paleys could enjoy the club. But she never heard back; later, a neighbor told her it was because Bill—and his children—were Jewish. But that she, Babe, could join if she liked.

She’d never told Bill this. She had seen him so wounded, so forlorn, when similar rejections had occurred. His blue eyes would fill with tears and his chin would tremble as if he were a little boy and not one of the most powerful men in all of broadcasting. Then the hurt would drain away to wrath, to steely determination, another house or another Picasso or another television station, or another designer dress that Babe didn’t really want but that Bill insisted on, insisted on her looking so unattainable that those who rejected him would surely gnash their teeth in despair, to look at what he owned. Whom he owned.

Whom he married, that is.

But love?

She’d never felt her heart race in anticipation, knowing she would see Bill. Yet every time she was going to meet Truman, she felt so excited, so certain of delight that her skin tingled with adrenaline and she found herself laughing, all alone, even before he arrived. She always looked her best for Bill, but she went out of her way to find some new twist or flare to delight Truman: bells on her skirt, a whimsical brooch on an otherwise tasteful, expensive blouse. Because to make Truman gasp, to make him clap his hands, dance with joy, be struck dumb with awe, was simply the greatest delight she knew.

Pleasure, she realized, joy, anticipation—none of these had anything to do with how she felt about her husband, or even her children. But they had everything to do with how she felt about Truman.

“Do you know what?” Babe sat up, reached into her pocket, and dried her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief, careful not to smudge her mascara. She gazed at Truman, who was holding her hand tenderly, caressing it, loving it. Claiming it.

Claiming her.

So Babe took a deep breath, and decided to take the plunge. To be loved was not something she ever expected for herself, not anymore. But to love someone—oh, yes. Oh, God, yes. No one could deprive her of that.

“My analyst said something ridiculous to me the other day.” She couldn’t prevent a nervous laugh; she couldn’t look Truman in the eye. “He said—I can’t believe he said this!—he said I ought to have an affair with you. That you were obviously my obsession, and an affair would be a good thing, a healthy thing. For me, that is.” Babe felt unsteady, even though she was seated on the sofa; the room, red fabric walls, the silk hangings on the window, the most charming antiques money could buy, seemed to press in on her, tighter than the most unforgiving ball gown, the most constricting undergarment. Nothing was as it was supposed to be. The room was no longer a diorama of money and taste, arranged by the best decorators in town, Billy Baldwin and Sister Parish, but rather, now it was a circus tent. A hideous circus tent—oh, why hadn’t she seen this before, all that fabric on the ceiling and the walls?—and she was the freak show on display, all her needs and wants spilling out of her, pooling into the sawdust at her feet.

She couldn’t breathe. Although she was aware, acutely, of the sound of Truman doing just that, sitting next to her.

Suddenly she pulled her hand away from his and buried her face in a pillow. She simply couldn’t bear to hear what she knew he was going to say.

“Oh, Babe.” And his voice was soft, sad. “Oh, my Babe. Do you know, do you have any idea, how dearly I would love for that to be possible?”

Babe shook her head, the silk tassels of the pillow tickling her cheek. If she could only stay buried; if she never had to look at Truman’s face.

But that was impossible; she felt his hands, strong and masculine and soft and feminine, pulling her up, turning her toward him. He pushed her hair out of her eyes, and finally she had to look. His face was naked, completely vulnerable; he’d taken off his glasses, an act of intimacy that made her heart race with hope. He leaned in to her, carefully, and holding his breath, just like the most tender, most unsure of hopeful lovers, he kissed her, his lips tickling hers.

But then he pulled away, although he kept his hands on her shoulders. There were tears in his beautiful eyes.

“But it’s not possible. I am who I am, and I’m not ashamed of it. I like men. I always have. I’ve never even been tempted by the thought of being with a woman. But now, this moment, is the first time in my entire life when I have wished, just for the teensiest bit, that I was. You must know that, and remember it. We must remember this moment forever, because it is love we feel for each other. And we’re so lucky to have it.”