The Swans of Fifth Avenue(53)
She wandered over to the shoe salon, the busiest part of the store, the air humming with chatter and gossip from customers and salespeople alike, yet the teeming space was divided into cozy, intimate little areas where one could almost feel as if one was sitting in one’s own dressing room. She sat down, someone brought her tea in a Spode china cup, and then she was being shown dozens of white leather loafers, some with tassels, some with gold hardware, some with slippery leather soles, some with ridged rubber driving soles; all made of luxurious calfskin leather, soft and malleable, already conforming to her long, narrow feet. After much consideration—walking carefully, weighing each step, studying how her feet looked in the little slanted mirrors—Babe chose three pairs of Ferragamo loafers, identical, so that she could have a pair waiting for her at Kiluna, at Round Hill in Jamaica, and at Kiluna North, in New Hampshire. While she didn’t quite subscribe to the Guinnesses’ method of having identical wardrobes at all their various homes, so they didn’t have to carry luggage with them, she felt that she was being very prudent in this case. Italian loafers were a staple, just like loaves of bread. She was only exhibiting common sense.
The shoes, too, were whisked away to be wrapped up and shipped to the appropriate locations; after thanking the salesperson, Babe resumed her wandering, feeling very odd, light, as if she might float off the ground, like a balloon breaking free of its tether. Generally, Babe did not meander; she did not approve of it because her mother had not approved of such wasteful effort. Babe always had a plan, a list, and spending an afternoon at Bergdorf’s to fulfill it restored her sense of self, of worth and accomplishment. But today, it wasn’t working. So she found herself, uncharacteristically, picking items up just to feel the slippery fabric of a silk dress, or the cool weight of a gold belt, in her hand, then placing them back down again, picking up, placing down, over and over, touching, touching, touching—silk and satin and gold and silver and crystal and leather and wool—and she knew she looked ridiculous; she could glimpse Mr. Stevens trying not to stare at her. Babe Paley simply never made an empty gesture, and here she was, assembling a parade of them. But her feet, her hands, her mind, her heart, were all restless.
Truman. It was all because of Truman. The things that used to keep her occupied and amused, now that she had grown to rely on him so deeply, did not. She was not the same person she’d been, before him. So what would happen to her if she lost him now? Now that he was vaulted into the celebrity stratosphere? Now that he was appearing on talk shows, on the covers of magazines, with his pick of royal admirers, debutantes, movie stars?
Now that, for the first time, he didn’t need her as much as she needed him?
Oh, what did it matter if she bought something new, something designed to make her look beautiful and desirable, today? Truman loved to admire her clothes—he could spend as much time in her closet as she could, happily taking inventory; he delighted in watching as she arrayed herself for an evening out or in, sitting at her feet, applauding and gasping and praising as she put on a private fashion show for two.
But now the world was at his feet. And nothing would be the same. And she had recognized herself in the pages of his masterpiece, in the guise of a plain—downright ugly, even—murdered housewife from Kansas.
Babe lit up a cigarette; she knew she smoked too much lately, lighting up one after another in her long ebony holder. Her doctor, worried about a persistent cough, had suggested she cut back, but that was impossible.
“Babe! Darling!”
Babe quickly inhaled, desperate for the smoke in her lungs; closing her eyes in an almost sexual pleasure, she exhaled and finally turned, a welcoming smile on her face before she even knew who had called her name. When she saw that it was Slim, she smiled even brighter, genuinely happy to see her. Surprised, as well.
Lady Keith, as she was now known after her marriage to a dusty, dreary British nobleman, had a title, that was true. But titles were a dime a dozen in their world, especially those titles without the cash to back them up. And that, unfortunately, was the title that Slim had hastily married, on the rebound from Leland, a few years back.
“Slim, dear, I’m so happy to see you! What are you doing here? I mean, what are you shopping for today?”
“Stockings and lingerie. Those Brits don’t know what they’re doing in that way. Now, they are brilliant with riding boots and hunting jackets, I’ll give them that. But anything for the boudoir simply isn’t in their wheelhouse, or imagination.”
“Boudoir?” Babe arched an eyebrow.
“Oh, Babe, not with my husband! How dreary! No, I have an assignation later on.” Slim looked her friend square in the eye, and Babe felt a flood of relief. So, not with Bill. Thank God. Slim would never do that to her, unlike some of her other so-called friends.
“You don’t have to tell me who.” Babe patted Slim’s arm. “I’m simply happy that you’re finding a way to have a little fun. Kenneth is…well, so very British.”
“You mean so very dull and hellishly snobbish. Well, I married him, so what’s that say about me?”
“It says you never have gotten over Leland,” Babe answered. Slim’s blue eyes filled with tears, her nose reddened, and she nodded, before turning away to look at a pair of brown suede gloves. “What an idiot I was, to have fallen in love with my own husband,” Slim whispered, blinking furiously. “Tell me about Truman. Have you seen him lately? Is the little guy insufferable with success?” And just like that, Slim was once again her fun, breezy self; she tucked her arm in Babe’s and the two headed to the elevator, where Slim instructed the boy to take them up to the lingerie floor.