The Swans of Fifth Avenue(65)
But her children were grown now; poor Kate and her nervous condition at boarding school, same as Bill Junior. Her eldest daughter, Amanda, was married to a young up-and-coming politician named Carter Burden and suddenly, to Babe’s astonishment, the Burdens were the “It” couple of the younger set.
Was Babe jealous of her own daughter? She asked herself this in times of honesty, and had to answer in the affirmative. After all, youth and beauty were fleeting and she was at the upper end of her prime, she knew it, faced it head-on—unflinchingly staring at herself in the mirror every morning and night, assessing, taking notes. She did everything she could to make the most of her assets while she had them; her hair was still thick and luxurious, although mostly gray now, defiantly so—another Babe Paley trend. Her skin was still firm, tight, due to repeated trips to spas and salons, daily facials, massages, electric treatments.
And, yes, perhaps a discreet tightening up, under the scalpel. She could admit this—to herself, anyway.
Her figure was still lean; no middle-aged pooch or hump for her, due to her devotion to a new form of exercise called Pilates—a torturous regimen of pushing and pulling and stretching. And of course she wore the best clothes, the most fabulous jewels—tastefully.
But the sixties weren’t about taste, were they? She wasn’t sure she would be able to accommodate these new times; Babe understood her style, had never given in to trends, but that didn’t seem to be enough anymore. And if she wasn’t the most stylish, the most perfect of them all, then—who was she?
Truman was the one who could answer that; he always had been able to. And despite her fears when In Cold Blood came out, he’d not really abandoned her or her friends; if anything, he’d thrown himself more fully into their midst, laughing louder, telling even more outrageous stories—“Oh, Babe, darling Babe, do you know what that awful Gore Vidal said about me this time? Of course, I drank him for lunch, so it doesn’t matter now”—dancing even more desperately (gyrating, shaking all over, his eyes closed, his face beet red, wispy hair plastered to his head), indulging himself in every way. But it wasn’t quite the same, at that; the moments when it was just the two of them were more precious, because they were more rare.
Truman was also drinking too much, and Babe had yet to mention this to him, although she felt she must, sometime. But lately, one martini at lunch was not enough; it had to be two, three, followed by brandy, and then on to the cocktail hour.
She must, mustn’t she? Mention this to him? If she loved him, as she most certainly did? They’d always told each other the truth. But the truth wasn’t always pleasant.
Babe bit her lip, glided back to her fabulous bedroom in her fabulous apartment on Fifth Avenue, twenty rooms, the penthouse, decorated fabulously by Billy Baldwin and Sister Parish with the usual fabric-covered walls, tented ceilings, priceless antiques and paintings—and Bill’s prized Picasso, Boy Leading Horse, taking pride of place in the entranceway so it was the first thing you saw when you stepped off the private elevator. It was a glorious apartment and Babe was proud of it, the same way she was proud of her figure and her face and her clothes and her jewels. It was all for show, it was all for prestige; figure, face, and apartment all equally photographed and coveted.
But outside the tasteful walls, it was all changing; already Babe felt as much a relic as the gorgeous Louis XVI commode in the hallway. Prized and coveted—by a certain person, anyway. A person who looked back on the past, instead of forward to the future.
Oh, Babe! What a load of crap—she almost laughed out loud, so surprised was she by the little voice that called her out, shook her from her morbid musings. Look at you! You’re dressed gorgeously, about to go to the party of the year, see all your friends, be part of Truman’s big night. What on earth is wrong with you?
And then she heard the buzzer, footsteps as Bill left his room, the butler open the front door, and Truman’s cry of, “Oh, it’s gorgeous! So perfect! Babe! Babe, come here this minute and let me feast my eyes on you, you glorious creature!”
And Babe was happy again. She adjusted a shoulder strap, straightened the diamond-and-ruby floral burst of a necklace at her throat, and sailed out of her bedroom to greet her friend. Confident, serene, her stomach fluttering in anticipation of being the most beautiful, the most photographed.
The most loved by the only one who mattered.
—
THE DEWEYS WERE HAVING a ball. No pun intended.
From the moment Truman arrived in Kansas all those years ago, such a strange creature with his velvet jackets, long trailing scarves, and Gucci loafers, their world had been turned upside down. Of course, at first it was because of the terrible tragedy of the Clutter family, whom they had known very well, all four of them; that November of 1959 was just an awful month, what with the uncertainty, fear, and Alvin’s around-the-clock pursuit of the killers in his role as detective for the Kansas Bureau of Investigation. Truman had been annoying at first, this New York outsider whom nobody trusted because obviously he was only there to make a buck, write a story about them, make fun of them, probably; the first time he asked to interview Alvin he stated blithely, “It doesn’t mean anything to me if you ever catch who did this, it doesn’t matter one way or another,” and Alvin had had to forcibly restrain himself from punching the little fairy in the face. It meant a lot to him; he had to catch the killers, he had to close the case and bring justice and peace to his neighbors once more. That was his job.