The Swans of Fifth Avenue(37)
Babe took a deep breath, let the air fill her lungs almost to bursting, holding it in, like a child desperate for a wish to come true. If it had been anyone else but Truman, she would have run, hidden herself. If it had been anyone else but Truman, she wouldn’t have said this in the first place, would never have exposed herself so thoroughly, allowed herself to be seen as someone real with raw needs and desires. If it had been anyone else but Truman whom she did love, just as he said—she released her breath. If it had been anyone else, but Truman.
But it was Truman, wasn’t it? Now, and always. He was still the same soul who saw her, and appreciated her, no matter how she allowed herself to be seen: vulnerable or impenetrable, exquisitely clothed and coiffed or with her hair unkempt, her eyes pink and runny.
It was Truman.
“It’s ridiculous, I know. I told Dr. Cameron so. It’s just that—” and Babe suddenly found herself with her friend again, not rejected at all; and best of all, most startling of all, loved, even if it wasn’t quite the way she longed to be. But sometimes one had to make the best of things. Hadn’t her mother taught her that, all her life? Bill might not see her, might not love her. But Truman, in his way, did.
So Babe indulged herself, pouring out that swollen sac of loneliness and regret, spilling it all over his lap, knowing he wouldn’t mind the mess of it, after all. “It’s just that I do get lonely, you know. For love, in that way. Bill won’t be that for me again, if he ever was. Oh, but I do miss it! I long for it. I long to be touched, and desired. I don’t know how I can live the rest of my life, knowing that my husband doesn’t want me. And I’ve never told anyone that before. Not even Dr. Cameron. Not even my sisters. I don’t know why I told you, even. But I’m glad. I’m so glad that I did!”
Babe closed her eyes and laid her head back down in Truman’s lap; he didn’t say a word for a very long time. He only continued to stroke her hair, bend down to kiss her on the lips—chastely, but lovingly. She could have gone to sleep; she could have slept better than she ever had, no need for a Miltown. She felt sated, physically. As if they had, indeed, consummated their passion.
And, perhaps, they had.
After several minutes, she opened her eyes. Truman was gazing down at her with such love, such sincere concern. She smiled and sat up.
“Goodness, I must be a mess. Let me fix myself up and let’s go out. What would you like to do?”
“You look absolutely breathtaking, but do what you have to do, my love. I’d like to see a movie. Let’s do that.”
“Do you want me to ring up CBS and reserve the screening room? Or we could have them send something out to Kiluna and watch it there, in the little theater.”
“Babe, oh, my Babe!” Truman laughed, but it wasn’t cruel. “Don’t you ever go out to the movies, like real people? To an actual theater?”
“Well, no, not since, well, not in a long time.” Babe blushed; sometimes she did forget how rarefied her life had become. Bless Truman for not making her feel utterly ridiculous!
“Well, I meant we should go see a movie. In a movie theater. With popcorn and everything. Not caviar. And it will be my treat.”
“Of course, that sounds wonderful.” And Babe rose, herself once more; she felt her spine straighten, her breathing slow down, and the room once more was a gorgeous thing to behold, a testament to her taste and breeding and wealth. Bill’s wealth. She was Barbara Cushing Mortimer Paley.
And right now, this moment, maybe, perhaps, she was loved.
Babe quickly changed into a Dior day dress, white silk with soft blue polka dots, tight at the waist, with a bow to the side and a portrait collar—she supposed that was appropriate for a movie theater—reapplied her makeup, and selected a deeper blue Hermès bag. She put her gloves on, surveyed herself in the full-length mirror, turning around, craning her neck so she could see over her shoulder. One slight adjustment to her stocking, and she felt ready to sail out and face whoever might be looking her way: maids, waiters, salespeople, photographers, Gloria or Slim or Marella or C.Z. People—friends, families, strangers—looked at her, and they looked for her. They always had. It was a fact of her life. She must be ready, then. She must make it worth their while.
“Before we see the movie, I have a surprise for you.” Babe rejoined Truman in the drawing room. He had reverted back to being rather melancholy; he had not moved from the sofa to fix himself a drink, or to ooh and ahh at the paintings or antiques; he hadn’t followed her into the bedroom to sit and gossip while she got ready, so unlike him. No, he was still seated on the sofa, his spectacles off, his face in his hands; when he looked up at her, she could see he had been rubbing his eyes, as they looked small and tired.
“A surprise?” Now he did put on his glasses; she saw an interested little gleam in his eyes, and she was thrilled to have sparked it.
“A surprise.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see!”
And soon enough they were sailing through the marble lobby of the St. Regis, with its clouds and cherubs on the ceiling, inlaid floors, gigantic floral arrangements, and crossing Fifty-fifth Street, turning right on Fifth Avenue, and entering Tiffany’s. The top-hatted doorman’s eyes widened in recognition; he held the door open for them with a properly awed “Good morning, Mrs. Paley! Mr. Capote! What an honor!”