The Last Princess (41 page)

Yet the second phase of her transformation awaited. It seemed exactly like the first time Colette had taken her to Paris. She was massaged and pampered; her nails were manicured and her hair was cut and curled.

Then she went to the Rue du Faubourg-St.-Honoré, the heart of Paris couture, and ordered an entire new wardrobe from Lanvin. They assured her that all would be complete within ten days, and they proved as good as their word.

As Lily stood in front of the mirror for her last fitting, she thought, I may look like a new woman, but all I want is to be the woman Harry fell in love with over twenty years ago.

Filled with renewed confidence, she found herself impatient to go home. Upon her arrival back in Manhattan, she was startled to hear that Harry would be flying in at six o’clock that evening, earlier than expected.

“Oh, Mary, I’ve got so much to do!” she cried. “I want dinner at home tonight.”

“I’ll take care of the marketing, Mrs. Kohle. Just make a list of what you want.”

“Fine—fine,” she said distractedly. “I have to call Elizabeth Arden.”

At the salon, the attendants secretly thought that seldom had anyone needed beauty treatments less. Lily’s skin glowed, her hair shone—she was the picture of youth and loveliness.

Hurrying home, oblivious to the admiring stares, she checked with Mary to make sure that preparations for dinner were well under way, then she flipped through her mail. Invitations, thank-you notes, committee business, nothing that couldn’t wait.

She called Ellis. “I’m back—and I feel like a million. This trip was simply marvelous.”

“I’m glad. I was a little worried about you before you left.”

“No need to worry about me,” she laughed. “Everything’s just fine now. I’ll see you soon.”

After hanging up, she glanced at the clock. Good heavens, it was five-thirty. Harry would be home in less than an hour. Thank God he had told Mary that he would get a lift home with the people from Renaud’s.

Dashing into the bedroom, she surveyed the closet where Mary had already carefully hung up her lovely new Paris clothes. There were so many stunning dresses from which to choose. Which would Harry like best?

Finally she chose a gown of the softest flowing chiffon. Its clear spring shades were reminiscent of a Monet garden.

Donning her luxurious new silk lingerie and a cloud of French scent, she stepped into the dress, drew on a pearl-and-diamond necklace and matching earrings, then went to the living room to add the finishing touches to the huge bouquet on the mantel.

A minute later, she stood back and surveyed the scene. Satisfied, she was about to turn away when she caught a glimpse of herself in the huge Venetian mirror. Even to her own critical eyes, she looked beautiful, her skin flawless. In the subdued light, she could have been twenty years old again.

And then, suddenly, came the sound of a key in the front door. Harry was early.

Lily took a deep breath and went into the front hall. He was just hanging his coat in the closet and putting his hat on the shelf.

“Harry?” she said softly. “Welcome back.”

Turning, he saw her and stopped short. A flash of shock registered on his face. “What have you done to yourself, Lily?”

She was so stunned, she couldn’t speak. How she had dreamed of this moment, of how he would look at her, incredulous delight in his eyes, and then, overcome by her beauty, sweep her up in his arms. Instead, his words pierced her to the core.

“What do you mean?” she finally managed through stiff lips.

“You’ve had a face-lift, haven’t you?”

Tears formed in her eyes. “Does it look artificial? Is it that dreadful?”

“No, but there was nothing wrong with your face the way it was.” He shrugged. “I hope you didn’t do this for me.”

It was all Lily could do to keep from bursting into tears. Instead, she managed to hold herself together with her usual poise. “I know you must be tired after your flight. Perhaps you’d like to change before we have dinner?”

But when he had left the room, she sank onto the sofa and cried. All the hopes and dreams that had buoyed her up for the long weeks she and Harry had been apart had been laid waste in these few moments.

Dinner was a silent affair, the conversation stilted. Lily made no protest when Harry finally said, “I’m really not hungry, Lily. I’m totally beat. Would you mind if I just went to bed?”

As he walked into the bedroom, he yanked off his tie, a bitter expression crossing his face. He had barely been able to restrain his anger. Instead of touring with him, she had dashed off to Switzerland and had her face done. It was the biggest insult she had ever offered him, as well as the most unnecessary. But he would not utter one word of reproach. The thought of more fruitless discussions, more failures of communication, daunted him.

God only knew, Lily was a beautiful woman and always would be; their problems had nothing whatsoever to do with her looks.

N
OT HAVING BEEN IN
New York for so long, Harry had a host of people to see: his publisher, his attorney, Ellis. Lily didn’t see him until dinnertime.

The next evening, he was honored at a dinner given by the American Booksellers Association, and although Lily would have preferred not to go, she dutifully put on one of her new gowns and went with him. The drinks flowed, the food was superb, and the accolades lavish. In spite of herself, she began to relax and have a good time.

Harry was elated by the praise and stimulated by the champagne. On the way home, he became much more talkative than he had been since his return. She too, was feeling the effects of the champagne, and found herself thinking that maybe she had misinterpreted Harry’s coldness and indifference. He had simply been tired. That was all.

Still exhilarated, she donned her new French peignoir while Harry fell a little unsteadily onto his side of the bed.

Lily slipped into bed next to him, turned off the light, and put her arms around him. But a minute later she realized that Harry was already asleep. She kissed him and waited for a response, but instead he groaned and turned away from her. Wearily, she told herself that he had simply had too much to drink, but the nights that followed were no different.

A gloomy depression settled over Lily. Why was he trying to punish her? For what reason? Finally she decided she was going to confront him.

And then came the telegram that drove every other thought from her mind.

Harry was in his study on the telephone. When she rapped at the door, she heard him call, “I’m on the phone.”

But Lily couldn’t wait. Telegrams were imperative, demanding attention; the yellow envelope was a harbinger of good news or disaster. A terrible dread crept over her. She’d feared sudden news ever since she had received that phone call concerning Jeremy.

She entered abruptly and waved it at Harry, who muttered briefly, “I’ll have to call you back,” and hung up.

“Open it, Harry! Please hurry!”

Harry grew silent after he ripped the envelope open and read the cable.

“What is it?” Lily cried.

But Harry was speechless. She seized it from him. It read: “On behalf of Columbia University I am pleased to inform you that you have been named the recipient of the 1954 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction,” and carried the name of the president of Columbia.

“Harry!” she breathed, raising her eyes to meet his. “I can’t believe it!”

Finally, he found his voice. “I can’t either! A Pulitzer Prize!” Leaping up, he gave her a fierce hug. It was the first thaw in his coldness. Yet somehow it didn’t feel like a shared triumph, for however much he’d credited her on the road. Just as quickly, he let go of her. “My God, what a coup! I’ve got to call Ellis.”

It was impossible for her not to be both awed and moved as she sat at the presentation ceremony and heard the speaker address the vast crowd in the ballroom of the Waldorf-Astoria talking about the establishment of the prize and the fact that it recognized and rewarded the highest achievements of humanity. Her husband had achieved much: He had written a work that would last forever, a work of significance beyond its time.

She was brimming with pride. For all their recent trouble, for all the struggle and Harry’s relentless drive, this recognition made it all endurable. Lily just had to admire Harry, looking as distinguished as he did in his black suit.

Afterward, as the crush of friends and well-wishers surrounded them, it was almost impossible to move. The most glamorous of all the Pulitzer recipients, Harry received the lion’s share of media attention. Fighting their way through the crowd, the group from Renaud’s reached him.

Clapping him on the back, Joe Constantine, his editor, exclaimed, “Harry, you old son of a gun, you knocked ’em dead!”

“Wonderful speech, Harry! I hope you have a copy of it,” Roy Flatt said.

“Thanks, everyone,” Harry said, thoroughly exhilarated.

Lily found herself watching with a strange sense of detachment as the mob edged her off to the side. Harry gave off an aura of excitement which was almost palpable. Everyone wanted to reach out and touch him in some way, as if his magic would somehow brush off on them.

And then, with sudden clarity, she saw Kate Hathaway standing next to Harry. She was saying nothing, only gently smiling at him—but suddenly Lily
knew.
She knew, with dead certainty, that Kate and Harry were having an affair. Before tonight, she had never paid any particular attention to the woman. If anything, she had a vague idea that Kate and Roy were an item. But now she looked at Kate with fresh eyes.

There was no denying it, Kate was beautiful. She had wheat-blond hair, fair skin, and clear blue eyes. She was as slender as a reed. There was nothing suggestive about her appearance per se, and she made no gesture, spoke no word that was at all intimate or personal, but by some mysterious channel, Lily sensed the vital connection between her and Harry.

She had an urge to seize Kate and scream, right at the gala, but Lily Goodhue was not one for public scenes.

Lily swallowed hard and tried to keep from trembling as she stared first at Kate, then at Harry. It was simply too much to bear. She turned away with a quiet moan and literally ran into Ellis.

“Hello, Lily!” he greeted her. “I’ve been trying to get to you for ten minutes. The ceremony went beautifully, don’t you think?”

She stared at him with wide, pain-filled eyes.

“What is it, my dear?” he asked more quietly. “Is all this too much for you?”

Blindly, she shook her head. “Yes … no … I don’t know.”

Ellis looked past her to Harry with Kate Hathaway next to him. Keenly sensitive, he picked up what was on Lily’s mind.

He was about to say something but just then someone called, “Would the recipients and their spouses please gather up here for a few pictures.” Lily closed her eyes for a long moment. Ellis feared she might faint. Then she took a deep breath and turned back to the stage.

The photo session seemed endless. Lily kept a smile frozen on her face while Harry could have been a stone statue next to her; she steeled herself against his touch.

Then, just as she felt she could bear the pose no longer, the media people finally said, “That’s all. Thank you very much.

By now, the crowd had thinned out considerably, and the only ones left standing near Lily and Harry were Ellis, Roy, Kate, and Joe Constantine.

“How about going out for a drink?” Joe asked. “A little Dom Pérignon—on Renaud’s?”

“Great,” Harry said enthusiastically.

Lily felt as though she were living through a nightmare. Harry and Kate were so nonchalant, so offhand with each other, yet Lily was sure. And clearly neither one had any idea that she had fathomed their secret.

For as calm as Lily appeared, she knew that if she had to sit at the same table with them, pretending to celebrate, her self-control would disintegrate. Already it had been strained too far. As quietly as she could manage, she said, “I’m afraid I’ll have to take a rain check. I have a bit of a headache.”

Everyone fell silent. Harry was obviously torn. He wanted to go out and celebrate. But at the same time, how could he simply put Lily in a cab and send her home?

Slowly, he said, “Well, perhaps we had better all take a rain check. I know it’s early, but it has been a long evening for Lily.”

The others nodded, the party atmosphere fading perceptibly as they turned toward the exit.

“I’ll stop by the office tomorrow,” Harry called after the group from Renaud’s. “We’ll have to see how all this comes out in the press.”

“See you tomorrow, Harry,” Ellis said quietly, giving him a long, level gaze before turning away.

Lily and Harry rode home in absolute silence. Lily could barely speak; Harry seemed absorbed by his own thoughts.

When they reached home, Harry headed for the bar. More than a little annoyed with her, he poured himself a drink. Walking into the library without ceremony, she picked up the Scotch decanter. “I’ll take this, thank you.”

Without another word, she walked out of the room and down the hall to her dressing room, shutting the door behind her. She threw her new Lanvin on the floor and kicked her shoes into a corner as she headed toward the bathroom and began running a hot tub. She scrubbed her face clean of makeup, then lowered herself slowly into the fragrant bubbles, setting the decanter on the ledge next to the bathroom glass.

Lily stayed there a long time, draining several glasses and staring off into space. Much later, when she finally emerged, she slipped on a delicate-pink chiffon dress and high-heeled shoes. She felt cleansed, as if she had shed all the false poses she had assumed in hopes of pleasing Harry. Bolstered by that thought, she felt a bud of self-respect. Now she realized that she could not live with herself until she told Harry just exactly what she knew—and what she thought of him.

After a perfunctory knock, she entered Harry’s study and confronted him. “Harry, I’m going to ask you a question, and I want the truth. A simple yes or no: Are you having an affair with Kate Hathaway?”

For a long moment, he sat stunned. So that was it—she knew. But how? He would have sworn that everything was normal when they set out for the awards ceremony. How could she have found out? Kate would never, by word or gesture, reveal a thing. She had far too much presence, and too much skill in handling people. He couldn’t imagine how Lily had discovered the truth, but now that she knew, he felt a queer sense of relief.