The Swans of Fifth Avenue(60)
Babe wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like them, personally, but I don’t see why Minnie can’t have onions if she wants them.”
“I didn’t see why Minnie had to divorce Vincent, either, but she did.” Betsey didn’t even look at her elder sister; it was as if she weren’t there.
“Betsey, don’t start. I never wanted to marry Vincent in the first place. I don’t think he wanted to marry me. Gogs wanted it, and so, of course, it came off. I put up with him as long as I could, then I found him Brooke, who needed his money and name more than I did. And then he died, and so what? Who cares? Why did you divorce James, if we’re playing that game? Wasn’t a Roosevelt good enough for you?”
“James didn’t want to be a father to his daughters. I was looking out for my girls, just as Mama always looked out for us. I’m a good mother, Minnie. Not that you’d know anything about that.” Betsey narrowed her eyes at her sister.
“Oh, please!” Babe anxiously looked from sister to sister. “Girls, please! Not here! Mama would be distraught!”
“Babe, we’re not making a scene,” Betsey scolded her little sister. “Our voices are perfectly normal. You worry too much, as usual. But let’s do change the subject. Tomorrow’s Truman’s party. Of course, we all know what we’re going to wear?”
It was another rhetorical question; Betsey was fond of asking them. The sisters had coordinated their wardrobes weeks ago, just as they always did prior to a party. From their childhood friends’ birthday parties to Truman’s fabulous Black and White Ball—the divine Cushing sisters knew how to dress for maximum trio advantage. Babe always got the first pick, which Betsey had always begrudged but had never been able to change; the one thing, perhaps, in her life that she had not been able to bend to her will. After Babe made her selection, the other two had to somehow dress in a complementary yet unique fashion, with certain colors deemed special to one or the other. Babe was an angel in blue; that was a truth universally acknowledged. Actually, all jewel tones were hers. Betsey was often in black. Minnie didn’t care and, in fact, often simply asked Babe to find something for her to wear, which was a task Babe took great pride in, happy to be of help.
When it came to jewelry, however, it was every sister for herself; Betsey had Whitney money, Minnie had Astor heirlooms. Babe had the most modern jewelry, custom-designed by newer artistes: Fulco di Verdura, Jean Schlumberger.
“Well, we’re all in white, this time—so there’s no coordinating to do,” Minnie said with obvious relief. “Designers?”
“I’m in a Castillo,” Babe offered, even though Betsey knew very well who she was wearing.
“Dior,” Betsey replied.
“Balmain,” Minnie offered as all three sisters nodded in approval of their choices.
“Masks? I asked Halston to do mine,” said Betsey.
“Same here.” Minnie pointed to herself.
“I asked Adolfo—actually, I asked him to make three different versions, just in case,” Babe admitted, lowering her eyes modestly. “I provided him with some paste versions of my jewels, and he made up three different designs, and then I picked the one I liked best, and he added the real stones.”
“Oh, Babe!” Minnie was so open in her admiration, her thin face glowed. “Oh, that’s just like you, darling!”
“Yes, that was very smart of you,” Betsey admitted through gritted teeth.
“You know me.” Babe shrugged, even as she was enjoying Betsey’s obvious jealousy. “I don’t like to leave much to chance. Mama taught me that, anyway.” There was a lull while the waiter rolled a trolley up to their table filled with delicate sandwiches the size of silver dollars, luscious sugared cookies, and iced cakes. Each sister smiled in approval, allowed her tea to be poured in her cup, but when the waiter was gone, not one sandwich, cookie, or cake was selected. The onion argument had been moot, after all.
“What about Truman?” Betsey asked, moving the agenda along. “Are we certain he’s done everything right? Babe?”
Babe stirred her tea slowly. “This is Truman’s party, Betsey, dear. Not ours. I do think you might have forgotten that.”
“Yes, yes, but, well—Truman! He didn’t have the upbringing we did. And he’s relied on us, all three of us, so much in matters of taste. That new apartment, for instance—you and Minnie practically decorated it for him, didn’t you?”
“We did advise,” Minnie said, uncrossing then crossing her long legs, clad in silk hosiery, although she wore unbecomingly flat, rather plain shoes, something Betsey never did approve of. Even if Minnie was self-conscious about her height, couldn’t she at least wear something stylish, like Babe? “It was quite fun, wasn’t it, Babe, darling? But I do wonder at all the rattlesnakes he chose—so many stuffed specimens. Too much like the Museum of Natural History.” Minnie shuddered.
“I would say that’s an apt metaphor.” Betsey pursed her lips.
“What do you mean by that?” Babe shot back.
“Babe, dear, I simply mean that little Truman has a bit of a sting to him, don’t you think? Somewhat of a barbed way of looking at the world. Heaven knows he’s been divine to you, to all of us. But he’s not always that way to others. This whole party, really—I can’t help but think that he could have managed it better. Without quite so much publicity. Why, the Herald leaked the guest list. Leaked? How? Who gave it to them? And now everyone who wasn’t invited can’t claim that they were and turned it down. The world knows who was invited and, more important, who was not. That’s rather—bourgeois, don’t you think?”