The Swans of Fifth Avenue(73)
“Money,” Marella and Slim answered simultaneously. Pam wrinkled her freckled nose; talking of money was so crass, but so American. Yet, of course, they were right.
“Why do you even ask?” Slim added.
“Because—oh, shit.” Gloria shrugged. This was the reward, then? Married to an ugly old fart who gave her things, yes—but kept the really good jewels locked up, doling them out to her on occasions he deemed appropriate. The Guinnesses had houses, yachts, servants, the best clothes, but now nobody cared, nobody looked at her twice in her Givenchy gowns, her Balenciaga suits. Because she was goddamn old, and she was stuck with a man who farted in bed, and she’d never get anyone else, there was no trading up, not anymore, and all she could look forward to was losing her teeth, more face-lifts, orthopedic shoes instead of Ferragamos, the constant battle of the dye bottle (Dios mío, she couldn’t go a week before the gray started to show now, at her hairline), and all the money in the world couldn’t stop any of that, couldn’t stop the ravages of time and regret.
And that was the secret, the wonder of Truman, she realized suddenly. Truman had made them forget all that. He had amused them. Their husbands didn’t want to talk to them. They grew bored talking to one another, these glorious creatures, for they were all the same. Blond, brunette, tall, short, European or Californian, they were still the same; only the exteriors were different. And they devoted their lives to maintaining this difference, striving to shine, be the one jewel who stood out. Yet at night, they took off the diamonds and gowns and went to empty beds resigned to the fact that they were just women, after all. Women with a shelf life.
And then Truman leapt into their midst, and suddenly the gossip was more delicious, the amusements more diverse. He had sat on the beds of every one of his swans and whispered how beautiful she was, how precious, how devoted he was to her and her alone, and even though they all knew he was saying the same thing to each one of them, they didn’t mind. Because, beneath the beauty, they were all so goddamned lonely.
And the ball, that glorious Black and White Ball when they were so exquisite, so rare and coveted, that was their summit. Everyone’s summit—New York’s summit.
“Nobody dresses for lunch anymore,” Gloria complained, looking around the room. Yes, ladies of a certain age, like them, still clung to dresses, hats, gloves, polished shoes. But women in pantsuits were now allowed to dine at La C?te Basque, the Colony, the Plaza. In less rarefied places, men and women both now regularly wore jeans, sometimes torn, and tennis shoes, and athletic shirts. In public.
“You know, the funny thing is that Danny, the air-conditioning man, wouldn’t have been invited to Truman’s ball, back then,” mused Slim. “God, we were all so beautiful, weren’t we? The gowns, the masks. It seemed fun at the time, just another day at the office, but now, I don’t know—it seems like a lost dream, doesn’t it?”
“It’s all lost. Truman giveth, and Truman taketh away,” muttered Gloria. “And now he’ll get away with murder.”
“No. We taketh away. I’ll bet anything the little shrimp has been phoning us all day long. Well, I gave my maid instructions to tell Mr. Capote that Lady Keith was unavailable. Indefinitely.”
“Yes, I did the same thing.” Gloria nodded. So did Marella.
“I wonder what he’ll do, without us—without her, especially? He didn’t know it, but he needed us. More than we needed him.”
“Slim!” Gloria raised her glass in a toast. “That may be the most insightful thing I’ve heard from you all day. You’re damn right. Come.” Gloria set the glass down, signaled for the bill. “Let’s do something truly cruel. Let’s go home and rest up, then dress, and all of us go out on the town together, as if there’s nothing at all wrong. As if the bastard simply doesn’t exist. I’ll have my secretary call Suzy Knickerbocker and Liz Smith and let them know; of course, they’ll tell Truman.”
“That is one hell of an idea, Gloria.” Slim reached for her purse. “Except—well, it doesn’t feel quite right, without her.” And once again, they all looked at the empty chair.
“Oh, it’s not fair, not her. We’re all shits, all of us at this table. We’ve all done mean things to each other, we’ve all had our moments.” Slim slumped back down. “But Babe never did. She never said a bad thing about anyone, or did anything cruel or catty.”
“Life isn’t fair,” Gloria reminded her briskly. “We all know that. If life was fair, we’d be the ones with the fortunes and our husbands would look like Paul Newman. Come on, we’re doing this. I insist. We need some cheering up. And more importantly, we need to show that little shit we could give a f*ck what he says or does—or writes. Babe would understand.”
“Yes, mamacita.” Slim drew herself up, stifled a burp. “Oh, I wish Papa were still here! We could take your plane and fly to Cuba, wouldn’t that be grand?”
“For God’s sake, stop it with the Hemingway crap. I’m not Truman. I’m not that easily impressed,” Gloria snapped, handing several hundred-dollar bills to the waiter.
“I think that’s what I’ll miss the most about him,” Slim said as the four ladies rose, unsteadily, to their feet.
“What?”
“Truman. I’ll miss having someone to tell my stories to. Say what you want about him, Truman was a very good listener.”