The Swans of Fifth Avenue(70)
The music was divine. The food, perfect. The dancing, oh, the dancing! To see those glorious people dancing the Twist! Gliding about like Fred and Ginger to a waltz!
And my dear, what people are saying about it now. I’ve been inundated with phone calls! Everyone wants a quote. And that Penelope Tree, what a goddess. I’m going to put her on the cover of Vogue someday.
And you! You, you were absolutely marvelous. Well, everyone is saying so. No one can imagine a better party, ever. Anyone else who was even thinking of throwing one—well, they’ve all given up now, I should think so! Thrown up their hands and retreated. “Why even bother now?” they’re all saying.
It was simply the most magical evening ever. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, you know. You are absolutely the toast of the town, the king of the world.
“I am, aren’t I?” Truman opened his eyes; Diana Vreeland was grinning at him, waving her red talons, holding up newspaper after newspaper filled with coverage, pictures of him and his famous friends.
“Yes, you are. Truman, you’ve done it.”
“I’m so glad you were there, really! The night would have been a complete failure without my darling dragon lady, the divine Mrs. Vreeland!”
“As I said, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
Truman rose, they exchanged kisses, and he tripped out of her office at Vogue, waving his hand airily at one and all, as if he were royalty.
Diana smiled for a moment, then sat back down.
Thank God he hadn’t realized she hadn’t been there. She’d just lost her husband, Reed—why on earth did Truman think she’d want to go to a party? So she’d shown up for dinner at the Paleys’, as invited. But when the time came to leave, she got in a taxi that took her straight home, not to the Plaza.
And Truman was none the wiser.
—
“NORMAN MAILER WENT AROUND trying to start a fight. All night long! First with McGeorge Bundy, then with George Plimpton, then with anyone named George, then finally just anyone.”
“Oh, how divine! I saw him, and I thought, Norman, you’ve made my party! Although he wore that dirty raincoat the entire time—I doubt he even bathes, do you?”
“Only in the tears of his envy over you, True Heart. Now, tell me the truth.” Slim arched an eyebrow, leaned back on the sofa of her hotel suite. “Didn’t Pamela look hideous?”
“Absolutely. Completely stuffed, like a goose, if you know what I mean. You looked fabulous, my pet. Simply fabulous. What a shame Kenneth couldn’t come.”
“What do you mean? I would have been bored to tears if my husband had been there. As it was, I had a wonderful time.”
“I thought Gloria looked a little tight. Did she have some work done recently?”
“No,” Slim said, while nodding. “Of course not.”
Truman cackled. “Big Mama, you’re an absolute treasure!”
“Babe looked wonderful, of course.”
“As always. You know what I always say. Babe Paley has only one fault—she’s perfect. Other than that, she’s perfect.”
“Isn’t that the truth? But I love her, of course.”
“So do I, more than anyone in the world—except for you, Big Mama! But wasn’t it a fabulous party?”
“It was a great party, True Heart. Really great. Have you seen the newspapers?”
“Oh, those old things.” Truman waved his hand dismissively, but his eyes gleamed. He looked a little puffy and tired this morning, Slim thought—but then, who didn’t? She wouldn’t even look in a mirror yet, herself. But this morning, puffy and tired were badges of honor; only those who had danced all night at Truman’s party—and looked it—were in.
“Did Kay have a good time?”
“The best. Tell me again, what was your favorite part?”
“When Tallulah Bankhead flashed her bush at Cecil Beaton. I thought poor Cecil was going to faint dead away.”
“Oh, that’s precious! Too precious! I didn’t see that! But it was grand, wasn’t it, my dearest Big Mama?”
“So grand. The grandest!”
Truman kissed her and went on his way. Slim picked up the papers. She’d hidden the ones that were not so complimentary; the ones that more than hinted it was just a little appalling that Truman had been able to give such a fabulous party because of the slaughter of a Kansas family.
The ones that wondered if, now that he was such a social success, Truman would ever write anything good, ever again.
—
TRUMAN HAD SAVED the best for last.
He walked into the apartment, past the Picasso, and into Babe’s open arms. She looked gorgeous, fresh, completely made up, and he marveled again at her discipline, her devotion to her best creation, her exquisite self.
“Bobolink! My most precious person ever! Tell me, tell me all!”
“Oh, Truman, it was wonderful.” And Babe said it quietly, seriously, with none of the exaggerated after-party brightness of the others, and maybe Truman registered that, and maybe he didn’t.
“It was, wasn’t it?” He sighed, kicked off his shoes and they both settled into a sofa, his head in her lap, his feet tickling a velvet pillow. She had tea waiting, and a special vase of lilies of the valley just for him—she’d known, hadn’t she, that perfect creature, that simply everyone in the world would send him flowers this morning, flowers and gifts and thank-you notes and telegrams. So she’d saved her flowers—their flowers, the ones they sent to each other each time they suspected the other was a little blue—to give him in person. Babe was the most thoughtful person he knew.