The Swans of Fifth Avenue(52)

“And I think I’ll get a manicure before. And a facial. In fact, I have to run right now, if I’m going to work those in.”

“Of course, Truman, you must! You’ll look simply wonderful on camera! I can’t wait to watch the program—will you, will you watch it with me? I mean, let me watch it with you?”

“Babe, I promise. I won’t watch it with another soul, not even Jack—who is simply livid, by the way, at all the attention. Jealous, too. Poor dear boy, he’s such a good writer.” Truman sighed, and Babe could picture him shaking his head. “Though it’s hard on him to see my success, especially now. But I can’t be expected not to enjoy it just because of him, can I?”

“Of course not!”

“I knew you’d understand, Bobolink! Now I must fly. I’ll see you soon!”

“When?”

But Truman had already hung up the phone.

Babe paced around the house for a while, at loose ends. She could go talk to the gardener about the new trees she wanted for the pond this spring, although she couldn’t wander the garden; it was January now. While there was no snow on the ground, she shivered just to think of the bare limbs, dried-out stalks, matted-down leaves, and patches of ice. She really disliked New York in winter; lately, the cold had started to take its toll. It was more difficult to catch her breath in the frigid, dry air. But Bill was in Los Angeles; that was the reason they weren’t in Jamaica, as they normally would be.

Restless, Babe walked into her closet, that Aladdin’s cave of racks upon racks, cloth-lined drawers, hidden compartments, garment bags full of treasures, shoes stuffed with tissue and placed in color-coded cloth bags. Bonnie Clutter had lived in housedresses and nightgowns and thick white socks.

But Babe Paley stood in the middle of designer glory, surrounded by beautiful gowns, stylish day dresses, suits of every color and weight, and decided, with the contrariness of a fretful child, to go into the city, to Bergdorf’s, and buy some more. Because that was something that she could do, and Bonnie Clutter could not.

For that was what Babe did, after all; it was her primary occupation. Acquisition. She sometimes thought of herself as a museum curator, only the museum was herself, her homes, her way of life. That was what she had learned to do at Westover, and so she did it extraordinarily well. Surrounding and draping herself with luxury and beauty was her profession, and it was a nicer one than most people had to put up with, and yes, she did enjoy it; it was her outlet, her chief pleasure. Until she’d met Truman, that is.

But Truman was busy. Soon Babe found herself tucked into the backseat of a huge black sedan, settling into leather seats, an array of the newest magazines in a rack before her, a little wooden caddy filled with a carafe of water and a split of champagne on the floor next to her feet, a cashmere throw over her lap, classical music piped softly from hidden speakers. And then she was being whisked away from Long Island and into the city, where she was deposited in front of Bergdorf Goodman; she exited the car without giving a thought about where it would have to be parked, or how much it might cost. Someone would take care of it for her.

And so she pushed herself through the revolving doors of Bergdorf Goodman, not stopping to marvel, as others might, at the polished marble floors and walls, the gleaming display cases that looked like priceless antiques themselves—ancient armoires, French china cabinets; the towering ceilings, gold fixtures, blazing crystal chandeliers, delicate little settees and armchairs and stools placed around at intervals. Bergdorf’s was as familiar to Babe Paley, and as luxuriously appointed, as any of her many homes.

“Oh, Mrs. Paley!” A floor manager was approaching, wringing his hands. “Mrs. Hughes isn’t here today. We didn’t know you’d be stopping by!”

Mrs. Hughes was her salesperson; Babe, like all of Bergdorf’s favored clients, had her own personal assistant to fetch and carry and suggest and praise.

“It’s quite all right, Mr. Stevens. I’m feeling rather impromptu today. I think I’ll just wander a bit, if you don’t mind? Yes, that’s it. I’ll just be a shopper today, a tourist, just like anyone else!” Just like Bonnie Clutter, Babe thought, even as she smiled kindly at the worried little man in front of her with a bead of sweat on his brow, obviously fearful that he had made a mistake, that the powerful Mrs. Paley might be angry with him for not being ready for her. He could lose his job for much, much less.

Babe smiled kindly at him, to put him at ease; he was only doing his job, which was to make women like herself feel privileged and pampered and come back for more. She allowed Mr. Stevens to take her coat from her shoulders, and thanked him.

“Of course not! Please let me know if there’s anything I can get for you.” And Mr. Stevens bowed, backed away, but did not remove himself from her sight, and would not for the rest of the afternoon, Babe knew. She stifled a sigh, put on a pair of sunglasses—she was attracting stares now—and had a fleeting wish for anonymity, for being able to wander, touch, feel, try on, without anyone bowing and scraping and fetching and carrying. Or envying.

But she also longed for Truman to be with her, and the two of them together would have attracted even more attention. Aching inside from a familiar emptiness, Babe determined to fill it. She went to the hat salon, where Halston himself—wiry, nervous—was only too happy to show her several new models; she sat in front of an ornate gold mirror while he helped her arrange them on her elaborate coiffure. He had the rare talent of being able to do so without mussing the hairstyles of his clients. Babe smiled, put up with his obsequious small talk—“Oh, Mrs. Paley, you look divine in anything, but I particularly like the red turban”—and she agreed, and the red silk turban with a jeweled brooch was promptly whisked away to be wrapped and boxed. Babe thanked Halston profusely, complimented him sincerely—the man was an artist, there was no denying it—and then decided she needed a new pair of white loafers.