The Swans of Fifth Avenue(61)
“Truman has a secretary, who sent the invitations out,” Babe said primly. “He wasn’t the only one with access to it.”
“Babe, dear, your loyalty, as always, is touching.” Betsey’s lips curled up. “Let’s hope tomorrow night isn’t a disaster, because of course, people will assume we all had something to do with it, even if we didn’t. Especially you, Babe, as close as the two of you are.”
“I don’t think we have to worry. He’ll pull it off brilliantly, I know.” Babe felt her cheeks flush, heard her voice rising ever so little, and so she sipped some tea and smoothed the skirt of her Chanel day suit. “I can’t wait to see what you’re wearing, Betsey, dear.” Babe smiled serenely at her older sister. “I know you described it to me, but I can’t wait to see you in person. Is Jock wearing a mask? I can’t get Bill to wear one!”
“No, Jock won’t, either.”
“Jim is!” Minnie beamed. “He’s spent weeks designing it himself!”
“Naturally,” Betsey murmured with a significant look at Babe. “I’m not at all surprised, dear, to hear that.”
“What do you think Gogs would say about the party?” Minnie mused. She had been her mother’s “problem” daughter; the two had clashed often in private, although in public Minnie generally conformed to her mother’s ideals. Betsey was so exactly like her mother that they had always been in agreement. Babe was too insecure ever to question her mother’s decrees, except for when she married Bill—that had been quite the time! Minnie grinned, remembering her mother’s utter disbelief that Babe, of all her daughters, would marry a Jew! “I often wonder how Mama’d feel about Truman,” Minnie wondered.
“I hope she’d like him as much as we do,” Babe said quietly.
“No, she wouldn’t,” pronounced Betsey the wise. “She wouldn’t have trusted him one bit. I can’t say that I’d blame her, either. But he is quite amusing. In small doses.”
“Well, I do know that Mama would never have approved of all this publicity—photographers at a party! She must be writhing in her grave!—but secretly, she’d cut out all our photos and paste them in a scrapbook. And she’d demand to be shown our gowns beforehand; heavens, the idea of us dressing ourselves, at our age!” Minnie laughed fondly; she did miss the force of nature that had been her mother. Gogs, for all her prickliness, still had been the compass, the rudder, the sail; the very wind driving her girls toward the safe harbor of wealth and privilege. And it was safe, Minnie had to admit with a sigh. And she was a coward; she knew she’d never have made a good poor man’s wife. None of them would have. Well, maybe Babe.
The pop of a champagne cork caused all three sisters to shift expectantly in their seats; Cristal was poured into their glasses, and Betsey raised hers first, to give the customary toast.
“To Gogs!”
“To Gogs,” her sisters repeated, and the glasses clinked, causing everyone in the palm-filled room to look, and gape, once more.
Three beautiful women—the three fabulous Cushing sisters. Gracing the Plaza with their presence; granting their subjects a glimpse, laughing together, careless, privileged, so exquisite that it was impossible even to envy them. They were simply unattainable.
Then the sisters drifted away, blowing air kisses, bestowing smiles of recognition to a chosen few as they made their way to their waiting limousines.
After all, they must see to their gowns; they must try them on one last time, in case there were any unexpected tears or loose sequins. They must remember the code to the vault, so that they could retrieve their jewels. They must make sure their husbands had a good dinner, a perfect cigar, so that they were in such good moods, they might actually be persuaded to dance tomorrow night—or at least not mind if the sisters danced with other men. And then, of course, the sisters must also go to bed early, with cucumber slices on their eyes, special facial masks hydrating their skin.
For hadn’t their mother told them always to get a good ten hours’ sleep the night before a party?
CHAPTER 14
…..
The morning of the party, Kay Graham went to have her hair done. Normally she just had a plain shampoo and set, but she was growing worried. Truman had told her of the elaborate preparations being undertaken by some of his friends, the really elegant ones, the swans, he called them—Marella Agnelli, Slim Keith, Gloria Guinness, Babe Paley. Kay had met them all—in fact, had been introduced to Truman by Babe, who was so elegant, so perfect, that Kay always felt dowdy next to her, no matter how nice a dress she was wearing. But Kay was simply missing that elegant, stylish gene, and she knew it, and besides, in Washington that didn’t matter so much.
But in New York, it did, and tonight she was going to be on display—“Darling, you must look divine! All the newspapers will be sending photographers! Television networks, too! All eyes will be on you, my darling, precious Kay!”
Truman meant to be kind, she knew. He was excited for her. But his words filled Kay with despair, that familiar self-doubt. Frankly, she wished she could just stay in her hotel suite at the Plaza and watch television or read a book.
But she couldn’t, and so, taking a deep breath, she grabbed her purse and ran out of the Plaza in her plain clothes—a cotton dress, low-heeled pumps. She hadn’t put any makeup on, as she normally didn’t wear any. She did plan to wear something—mascara, lipstick—tonight.