The Swans of Fifth Avenue(44)
Bill cheated on Babe and Slim cheated on Leland and Gianni cheated on Marella and Gloria cheated on Loel and Loel cheated on Gloria—and Loel had cheated on Gloria with Pam Churchill, come to think of it—and Truman, yes, cheated on Jack and Jack cheated on him. But it wasn’t cheating for the two of them because they both knew about each other’s conquests, discussed them in detail. The thing is, though, everyone stayed together. Everyone, for the most part, behaved, kept it quiet, out of their social circle—don’t shit in your backyard, Slim had once advised to him cryptically, her eyes red.
Everyone came home to each other, at the end of the day, and sailed out into the world and had their photographs taken together—Mr. and Mrs. William S. Paley at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, celebrating the opening of a new wing. Because that was what mattered, that was what counted.
And if he, Truman, could keep Bill happy so that he would keep coming home to Babe, who would be devastated if he ever did anything so old-fashioned as to divorce her, as Leland was apparently going to do to Slim, then wasn’t Truman performing a good deed?
Wasn’t he being a real man, helping out another man?
Wasn’t he being a true, loyal friend to Babe, ensuring that at least Bill wasn’t going to get the clap, and wouldn’t he be there for her, always, whenever she needed a shoulder to cry on, someone to pick up the pieces of her shattered heart and glue them together in a beautiful mosaic, something as glittering and gay and gorgeous as she was, giving her back her heart as a present? One that she would cherish forever, and be reminded of him—Truman—every single day that lovely heart beat gallantly, and never, ever hurt or leave him? And love him, love him as he deserved to be loved, finally?
Yes. Yes, that was it. He was doing it for Babe.
So he called up his longtime friend Carol Marcus Saroyan Saroyan (for she’d married Bill Saroyan twice) Matthau and invited her to lunch at 21. And after they had finished their salads, he asked her, “Do you know Bill Paley?”
Carol, an ice-cream blonde, all melting curves, creamy skin, and big, brown little girl eyes, shuddered. She and Truman had been friends ever since they were children, neglected children of Manhattan mothers clawing to gain a foothold in society. Carol was built for men; she was a vessel for every lustful thought, sentimental notion, they possessed. Truman was quite upset that she’d recently married some poor actor—Matthau what’s-his-name—instead of marrying into money. It seemed a colossal waste of assets, pure and simple.
“Bill Paley?” Carol pouted. “Yes, I know him. Slightly. He chased me around a table once.”
“Every man with a pulse has chased you around a table once, baby doll.”
“That’s true.”
“You must have made an impression, because Bill asked me about you. He wanted you to know that he thinks you’re extremely special. His ideal, I believe is how he put it.”
“So?” Carol barely touched the Manhattan in front of her, other than to suck on the cherry, like Lolita.
“He would be quite honored if you’d consent to be his guest at dinner some evening. Soon. Just the two of you, of course. A quiet tête-à-tête.”
“He wants to seduce me?”
“Well, I’m not sure Bill is much of a seducer, darling. He’s more of a ‘launch an offensive’ kind of man, I suspect. After all, he’s friends with Eisenhower.”
“Those World War Two men! They never stop preparing for battle.”
“No, they don’t. But to get to the matter at hand, dearest Carol, I know you’re just mad about this actor of yours—although, for the life of me, I can’t understand why—but I thought this would be good for you. Bill can pull some strings, of course; he’s a very influential man in the industry. And really, he’s quite enamored. You’re just his type.”
“Married?”
“Silly! No, blond and dishy.”
“He’s married to Babe, for God’s sake! Babe Paley! I couldn’t even come close to her—look at me!” And Carol gestured to her frilly peasant dress, the type she liked to wear in order to emphasize her femininity. Truman was tired of trying to get her into more tailored, stylish clothes; he’d simply given up on it.
“Darling, Babe is perfection. And my dearest angel of a friend, so you must know how this pains me. But between you and me, Babe and Bill—well, they aren’t exactly intimate in that way. You know these jet-setting married couples! They are very his and hers. It’s in their blue-blooded DNA.”
“No, Truman, I won’t do it. Tell Bill Paley to—well, tell him to do whatever you think he should do, but I’m not going to be his conquest. I like Babe. I admire her.”
“Yes, I foresee that’s going to be the trouble,” Truman agreed sadly. “Most of the women I know do. What about your dearest friend Gloria? Gloria Vanderbilt? She’s not exactly Paley’s type, but she might do. Do you think she’d be interested?”
“Truman, dear, listen to me.” Carol rose, reaching for her handbag, leaving Truman the check. He was very generous to his longtime friends, those whose star hadn’t risen to his heights. He was always happy to pay.
“Yes?”
“Don’t be a pimp. It doesn’t suit you. You’re too short.”