The Swans of Fifth Avenue(63)
Rose Kennedy, her hair freshly dyed and hanging straight, obviously waiting to be set, sat opposite, waving gaily, and Kay waved back, thankful to see a familiar face. Yet even as she waved to Mrs. Kennedy, Kay felt as if she had stepped through the looking glass. She wasn’t used to pampering herself on the scale of a Kennedy!
“Mrs. Graham!” Kenneth—Kenneth himself! The creator of Jackie Kennedy’s bouffant hairdo and Marilyn Monroe’s flip—put his combs and brushes down and clapped his hands, causing Kay to gasp. “It’s an honor to do your hair. What kind of mask are you wearing? Did you bring it? And your dress?”
“Oh, no, I didn’t think of that—”
“Never mind,” Kenneth said kindly, with a sympathetic twinkle in his impish eyes. “Describe them to me.”
“Well, they’re quite simple, really, just a white dress, in a robe style, with long sleeves, with these crystals—hematites, gray—around the neck and sleeves, and on the mask, too. It’s white.”
“I think, then, something classic and chic. We’ll set it, but then brush it up, from the face, secure it in the back very plainly and let the sides be, very sleek, very nice.”
“Oh, yes! Thank you!” And Kay Graham could have burst into tears; Kenneth seemed to know exactly what she had in mind. Not for her the elaborate coiffures, curls upon curls, fake pieces, odd dyes that she’d seen.
“I think that sounds lovely, dear,” Rose called to her in her brittle Boston accent, and Kay nodded enthusiastically. Then she allowed herself to relax and be pampered; someone brought her a tray, on which were tiny little tea sandwiches, a flute of champagne, a cup of broth. She nibbled, had her nails done, sat with her hair in rollers under the quietest dryer she’d ever experienced, watched as Kenneth created miracles on other women’s heads, closed her eyes as he did the same to hers, once she came out of the dryer, and then—
“Voilà!”
Kay opened her eyes. She felt her face stretch into a smile so broad, so purely delighted, that she almost didn’t recognize it, for it had been a long time, truly, since she’d smiled like that—beamed, actually.
But she looked wonderful! Oh, simply wonderful, and what a shame it was that Phil wasn’t here to see her—but no, she wouldn’t cry; she blinked away the few tears that sprang to her eyes. But he had been so handsome, and she so plain, and she always felt the difference even though he, when he was himself, never did. When he wasn’t himself—
Well, that was it. He wasn’t himself.
But now she looked so pretty! So young, her hair sleek and simple, but she would never be able to replicate it at home. It took someone as talented as Kenneth to make her more herself than she’d ever been.
Kenneth didn’t have to ask how she liked it; he saw the tears in her eyes. He blinked his own away and sighed the satisfied sigh of an artist at the end of a good day’s work.
Then he turned to do the same thing, all over again, to the next beautiful woman walking into his studio. Marisa Berenson. What a vision.
Kay Graham slipped away, careful not to muss her hair as she changed back into her dress, thankful that it had stopped raining as she walked outside, so afraid of disturbing her hair that she didn’t even turn her head. But she had to hurry back to the Plaza to change, to have her daughter, Lally, make up her face (for Kay truly didn’t know how), and to wait for Truman—dear Truman, kind, thoughtful Truman!—to knock on her door and escort her, Cinderella, to the ball.
Until this moment, Kay really hadn’t been looking forward to it. But now she couldn’t wait.
—
SLIM, TOO, WAS AT Kenneth’s that afternoon, although she missed Kay Graham. She also—due to the brilliance of Kenneth’s staff—missed Pamela Churchill Hayward, thank Christ! But she couldn’t very well miss her this evening, and so Slim put herself into Kenneth’s hands, knowing he would make her look beautiful.
She was looking forward to the party, even though she would see more ex-husbands and ex-lovers than she wanted to. But a party was a party, and maybe a good brawl would break out at this one—Truman once told her that was the sign of a really great party.
Although somehow she sensed that he wouldn’t really think so, if it happened tonight.
—
TRUMAN WAS ALL AFLUTTER. He was simply exhausted by the phone ringing all afternoon in his suite at the Plaza; the Kansas group, the plain, darling people he’d met while researching In Cold Blood, kept calling him, keeping him abreast of their adventures (they’d had their hair done at the Plaza salon, their masks were all delivered, their gowns pressed). They were ecstatic at being invited to his party, and their enthusiasm touched him—really, it was nothing to have invited them, to have given their dreary lives a little color!—even if he didn’t have time for it right now. The management of the Plaza had a flurry of last-minute questions about floral arrangements and details about the orchestra and did he want the buffet served at midnight or later? And about the security…that was a headache! They assured him his guests would appreciate a separate entrance, not through the main doors on Grand Army Plaza, so that some of them could avoid the inevitable cameras and onlookers.
Truman agreed—shuddering at the cost—even as he rolled his eyes. If he knew his guests, and he did, none of them would take advantage of this hidden entrance.