The Swans of Fifth Avenue(9)
“I’m starving. What’s for dinner?”
“Lamb chops—so tender you can eat them with a spoon!—and these adorable baby vegetables I found in the city, and brought out with me today in a little wicker basket. And potatoes, new and succulent, with butter and rosemary picked fresh just an hour ago.” Babe narrated the upcoming meal with the crisp yet poetic professionalism of a food stylist, or a critic from The New York Times.
“All right.” Suddenly Bill Paley smiled; it was an enormous, cocky, glad-to-see-you grin that crinkled up his eyes and made him seem, Truman thought at that moment, like a man who had just swallowed an entire human being. (Oh, that was very good, Truman said to himself; that was a keeper. A man who had just swallowed an entire human being—he filed it away in his photographic memory, to be used at a later date.)
Yet the grin was infectious, changing Bill Paley’s whole demeanor; Truman couldn’t help but grin back. “Come on, Truman, nice to see you again. I’ll show you around. Don’t take too long, Babe.”
“Of course I won’t, darling!” Babe laid her hand on her husband’s arm and tiptoed up to give him a kiss on the cheek; she was only a couple of inches shorter than he, and Truman noticed, for the first time, that she was wearing flats. And that she always wore flats.
Bill Paley, still grinning, rubbing his hands together in anticipation of the meal ahead, turned on his heel, striding quickly out of the room. Not even turning to see if Truman was following, but something in the sureness of his gait, the way his arms swung, like a general’s, indicating that he knew that Truman was. This was a man obviously used to barking out orders and having them followed.
And Truman did. With a quick, sympathetic glance at Babe, who rewarded him with another glimpse behind her mask of perfection—a small, involuntary little grimace.
But when she reappeared, not ten minutes later, in the perfectly appointed drawing room full of exquisite antiques, rare paintings, yet somehow so comfortable that sinking into one of the upholstered chairs was like sinking into a nap, she was as serene as ever. Wearing a column of silk, draped about her tall form like an exquisitely tailored toga, the neckline a deep slash to her sternum, a slim black belt encircling her nonexistent waist. Her makeup was perfect; not a hair was out of place. She looked as if she could glide into the Plaza ballroom.
Except for her feet. They were elegant, arched and bare, toenails glittering with a ruby-red polish. Brushing the top of her surprising pale feet, the hemline of her gown tinkled softly.
“Jingle bells!” Truman cried, so delighted he clapped his hands. The creature had sewn jingle bells into the hem of her couture gown!
“Shhh!” Babe put her finger to her lips, sharing the secret with a conspiratorial grin. And so she chimed, softly, faintly, Tinker Bell in Givenchy, wherever she glided—to and from the bar, handing Bill his drink, getting one for Truman, offering them both a silver plate of hors d’oeuvres that had magically appeared, making sure the fire was just the right temperature, turning on lamps that shone with the most amazing, flattering light—faintly pink, not white. Finally settling down at her husband’s feet, her skirt rustling a musical crescendo, to remove his shoes, massage his insteps, and suggest, “Now tell me about your day, my darling. I want to know every detail. You look as if you’ve been through the wringer, poor baby.”
Bill Paley, his tie off, his Italian shirt opened at the neck, a Manhattan in one hand, a crisp, bacon-wrapped fig in the other, didn’t respond. He didn’t even glance at the gorgeous creature kneeling at his feet. He did, however, study Truman with heavily lidded, reptilian eyes.
And Truman, watching the scene, frowned. His goddess, turned into a mere housewife.
If this was what her mother had trained her for, then God damn her soul.
CHAPTER 4
…..
“Darling! You don’t know! You simply can’t understand how glorious they were, those girls! They still are! But when they first arrived, you simply can’t appreciate the sensation they made, all three of them—Betsey, Minnie, and Babe!”
“Then tell me, my pet, my divine one,” Truman cooed, sitting, with his legs tucked beneath him, on a fragile-looking yet sturdy Oriental chair.
“Truman, I do have a job, you know. Although God knows Hearst pays me pennies to do it.”
Diana Vreeland, fashion editor, thrust her chin out and smiled her monkey smile, a big, scarlet-rouged grin that made her ears stick out even more prominently than usual. Her yellow teeth, framed by viciously red lips, tore into the words with gusto. Her black hair, so lacquered you couldn’t see the individual strands, was brushed severely back and held in a blue-black snood. An incongruous wide satin bow corralled the front of her hair back from her forehead. As she spoke, her long, tapered fingers flew and beckoned and pronounced, punctuated by pointy red talons.
Truman was in her office at Harper’s Bazaar. On her desk, on the credenza, flickered the jewel-toned, richly scented Rigaud candles every rich woman he knew favored. There were photos, drawings, bits of fabric in every hue and weight, hats, gloves, all pinned to the walls. As he sat, he had the distinct impression that hovering outside were armies of emaciated mannequins clad in the latest styles, waiting to be told “Yes—divine!” or “God, no, that’s ghastly!” An entire world of fur and satin and cashmere and chiffon and silk, hemlines of dizzying lengths, exquisitely impractical shoes, nervous designers and languid models, all awaiting Mrs. Vreeland’s pronouncement. Which she would surely give; she gazed at the world with those myopic, glittering, slanted eyes and passed judgment, editing, always editing—even life itself.