The Swans of Fifth Avenue(41)

“Darling Babe,” Truman breathed, and she finally looked into his eyes; they were beautiful and full of tears and pity and love for her, scars and all.

“The surgeries were so painful,” she continued, emboldened now to tell him all, tell him everything, because he wouldn’t leave her, he wouldn’t hurt her, no matter what she looked like, no matter what imperfections she confided. She had never told her sisters about all of it, had never mentioned it to Serge or to Stanley, her first husband, or, God forbid, Bill, who had no patience for anyone’s troubles but his own, who did not care about the provenance of anything except for the paintings he collected. “Little surgeries, one at a time. Tiny little stitches sewing me back together. Some without anesthesia, so my face wouldn’t go slack, so the scars would be minimal. I couldn’t move for months; I had to lie flat on my back and not stir, not laugh or cry or anything at all, while they restored my face, my perfect face. And my teeth—” Here she did hesitate, still so ashamed that her hand flew to her mouth. “I have false teeth,” she said simply. “My own had to be removed.”

“Oh, sweetheart!”

“At least I don’t have to worry about cavities,” Babe replied with a smile. But then she didn’t know what else to say; she felt odd, half exposed, with one side of her face made up, the other not. And she was still only wearing her underclothes.

Truman must have sensed this, because he continued his dabbing, swiping away the rest of her mask. Exposing the other scars: The one near her upper lip. The tiny one at the corner of her right eye.

And when he had finished, he turned her toward him. She lifted her head and steeled herself to see her reflection—unadorned, unaltered—in Truman’s eyes.

“You are beautiful,” he said. “Beautiful. I don’t see scars. I only see you. Babe. Perfect—not just because you still are absolutely gorgeous without all the makeup. Good God, those cheekbones! Those eyes! But you are perfect because of who you are, inside. I love you, Babe. I love you for that. For who you are, not for what you look like.”

Babe realized she was no longer covering her half-naked torso with her hands; her skin no longer felt cold, raw, unsheathed. She was completely relaxed. Comfortable, for the first time since she was a little girl, in just her own skin. Literally. Because of Truman.

Truman put the astringent and pads on the nightstand. He turned off the light, and they both pulled back the bedcovers and got into bed. They lay on their backs, side by side, for a long time not saying anything, not even when Truman guided her head toward his shoulder and put his arm about her.

Babe held her breath, listening to his heartbeat, so sturdy, so faithful. Finally she heard him begin to breathe deeply, and she knew he was asleep.

But Babe was wide awake; despite the comfort of being held so closely by someone she trusted so completely, her body still ached for more. She knew she’d never have that gift, not from him, and the loss did sting, although not like the rejection with which she was so familiar, from Bill.

But mostly, she was grateful for this moment. Because tomorrow, she would put on her makeup again, strive to find just the right outfit, organize Bill’s days and weeks and years, live up to her mother’s expectations, her father’s very conditional love. “That face” would be hers once more, to put on, hide behind, wield like a weapon, use like the sun, coaxing and beguiling and charming and turning to stone those who could not believe its perfection.

But there would always be one person who knew what she looked like, without it. Who had seen her scars and loved her, anyway. Who would never wound her with his words, like Bill, or with his absence, like her father.

And that person was now, and would be forever, Truman.





CHAPTER 10


…..





Things with the Paleys were getting complicated, he mused. And interesting; oh, so deliciously, delightfully interesting!

Truman still gasped whenever he first saw Babe after time away from her. Her beauty did not fade; it only became more finely honed with each passing year. His obsession with her still burned, for he craved beauty as he craved love and approval, and if he could have both in one gorgeous, glamorous package, then what more could he ask for?

And her vulnerability, her touching confessions; he could—and sometimes did—weep at the memory of that day they spent together, that night in her bed when he had lain beside William S. Paley’s wife and known her more completely than her husband ever would. He’d meant it when he said that she was the one woman whom he wished he could love physically. But even as he’d said it, part of him—the part he despised when he was hungover and regretful on certain mornings after—had suppressed a laugh, hearing himself already rearranging the story so he could tell it to those who appreciated his stories, especially the ones about the rich and famous, just like them. Cecil, perhaps—Cecil Beaton, to the masses; or Margaret—that is, Princess Margaret, to most people.

But they were just Cecil and Margaret to him. As were Liz and Grace and Marlon and Marilyn and Audrey and Humphrey and Betty.

“Well,” he’d begin, as he always began, that southern drawl that never failed to hypnotize, like a snake charmer’s tune. “You will not believe what happened to me the other day! Me, the queen of the fairies! Propositioned by a woman—and not just any ol’ woman, mind you. But the fabulous, the one and only, Babe Paley!”