The Swans of Fifth Avenue (17 page)

For that was what Babe did, after all; it was her primary occupation. Acquisition. She sometimes thought of herself as a museum curator, only the museum was herself, her homes, her way of life. That was what she had learned to do at Westover, and so she did it extraordinarily well. Surrounding and draping herself with luxury and beauty was her profession, and it was a nicer one than most people had to put up with, and yes, she did enjoy it; it was her outlet, her chief pleasure. Until she'd met Truman, that is.

But Truman was busy. Soon Babe found herself tucked into the backseat of a huge black sedan, settling into leather seats, an array of the newest magazines in a rack before her, a little wooden caddy filled with a carafe of water and a split of champagne on the floor next to her feet, a cashmere throw over her lap, classical music piped softly from hidden speakers. And then she was being whisked away from Long Island and into the city, where she was deposited in front of Bergdorf Goodman; she exited the car without giving a thought about where it would have to be parked, or how much it might cost. Someone would take care of it for her.

And so she pushed herself through the revolving doors of Bergdorf Goodman, not stopping to marvel, as others might, at the polished marble floors and walls, the gleaming display cases that looked like priceless antiques themselves—ancient armoires, French china cabinets; the towering ceilings, gold fixtures, blazing crystal chandeliers, delicate little settees and armchairs and stools placed around at intervals. Bergdorf's was as familiar to Babe Paley, and as luxuriously appointed, as any of her many homes.

“Oh, Mrs. Paley!” A floor manager was approaching, wringing his hands. “Mrs. Hughes isn't here today. We didn't know you'd be stopping by!”

Mrs. Hughes was
her
salesperson; Babe, like all of Bergdorf's favored clients, had her own personal assistant to fetch and carry and suggest and praise.

“It's quite all right, Mr. Stevens. I'm feeling rather impromptu today. I think I'll just wander a bit, if you don't mind? Yes, that's it. I'll just be a shopper today, a tourist, just like anyone else!”
Just like Bonnie Clutter,
Babe thought, even as she smiled kindly at the worried little man in front of her with a bead of sweat on his brow, obviously fearful that he had made a mistake, that the powerful Mrs. Paley might be angry with him for not being ready for her. He could lose his job for much, much less.

Babe smiled kindly at him, to put him at ease; he was only doing his job, which was to make women like herself feel privileged and pampered and come back for more. She allowed Mr. Stevens to take her coat from her shoulders, and thanked him.

“Of course not! Please let me know if there's anything I can get for you.” And Mr. Stevens bowed, backed away, but did not remove himself from her sight, and would not for the rest of the afternoon, Babe knew. She stifled a sigh, put on a pair of sunglasses—she was attracting stares now—and had a fleeting wish for anonymity, for being able to wander, touch, feel, try on, without anyone bowing and scraping and fetching and carrying. Or envying.

But she also longed for Truman to be with her, and the two of them together would have attracted even more attention. Aching inside from a familiar emptiness, Babe determined to fill it. She went to the hat salon, where Halston himself—wiry, nervous—was only too happy to show her several new models; she sat in front of an ornate gold mirror while he helped her arrange them on her elaborate coiffure. He had the rare talent of being able to do so without mussing the hairstyles of his clients. Babe smiled, put up with his obsequious small talk—“Oh, Mrs. Paley, you look divine in anything, but I particularly like the red turban”—and she agreed, and the red silk turban with a jeweled brooch was promptly whisked away to be wrapped and boxed. Babe thanked Halston profusely, complimented him sincerely—the man was an artist, there was no denying it—and then decided she needed a new pair of white loafers.

She wandered over to the shoe salon, the busiest part of the store, the air humming with chatter and gossip from customers and salespeople alike, yet the teeming space was divided into cozy, intimate little areas where one could almost feel as if one was sitting in one's own dressing room. She sat down, someone brought her tea in a Spode china cup, and then she was being shown dozens of white leather loafers, some with tassels, some with gold hardware, some with slippery leather soles, some with ridged rubber driving soles; all made of luxurious calfskin leather, soft and malleable, already conforming to her long, narrow feet. After much consideration—walking carefully, weighing each step, studying how her feet looked in the little slanted mirrors—Babe chose three pairs of Ferragamo loafers, identical, so that she could have a pair waiting for her at Kiluna, at Round Hill in Jamaica, and at Kiluna North, in New Hampshire. While she didn't quite subscribe to the Guinnesses' method of having identical wardrobes at all their various homes, so they didn't have to carry luggage with them, she felt that she was being very prudent in this case. Italian loafers were a staple, just like loaves of bread. She was only exhibiting common sense.

The shoes, too, were whisked away to be wrapped up and shipped to the appropriate locations; after thanking the salesperson, Babe resumed her wandering, feeling very odd, light, as if she might float off the ground, like a balloon breaking free of its tether. Generally, Babe did not meander; she did not approve of it because her mother had not approved of such wasteful effort. Babe always had a plan, a list, and spending an afternoon at Bergdorf's to fulfill it restored her sense of self, of worth and accomplishment. But today, it wasn't working. So she found herself, uncharacteristically, picking items up just to feel the slippery fabric of a silk dress, or the cool weight of a gold belt, in her hand, then placing them back down again, picking up, placing down, over and over, touching, touching, touching—silk and satin and gold and silver and crystal and leather and wool—and she knew she looked ridiculous; she could glimpse Mr. Stevens trying not to stare at her. Babe Paley simply never made an empty gesture, and here she was, assembling a parade of them. But her feet, her hands, her mind, her heart, were all restless.

Truman. It was all because of Truman. The things that used to keep her occupied and amused, now that she had grown to rely on him so deeply, did not. She was not the same person she'd been, before him. So what would happen to her if she lost him now? Now that he was vaulted into the celebrity stratosphere? Now that he was appearing on talk shows, on the covers of magazines, with his pick of royal admirers, debutantes, movie stars?

Now that, for the first time, he didn't need her as much as she needed him?

Oh, what did it matter if she bought something new, something designed to make her look beautiful and desirable, today? Truman loved to admire her clothes—he could spend as much time in her closet as she could, happily taking inventory; he delighted in watching as she arrayed herself for an evening out or in, sitting at her feet, applauding and gasping and praising as she put on a private fashion show for two.

But now the world was at
his
feet. And nothing would be the same. And she had recognized herself in the pages of his masterpiece, in the guise of a plain—downright ugly, even—murdered housewife from Kansas.

Babe lit up a cigarette; she knew she smoked too much lately, lighting up one after another in her long ebony holder. Her doctor, worried about a persistent cough, had suggested she cut back, but that was impossible.

“Babe! Darling!”

Babe quickly inhaled, desperate for the smoke in her lungs; closing her eyes in an almost sexual pleasure, she exhaled and finally turned, a welcoming smile on her face before she even knew who had called her name. When she saw that it was Slim, she smiled even brighter, genuinely happy to see her. Surprised, as well.

Lady Keith, as she was now known after her marriage to a dusty, dreary British nobleman, had a title, that was true. But titles were a dime a dozen in their world, especially those titles without the cash to back them up. And that, unfortunately, was the title that Slim had hastily married, on the rebound from Leland, a few years back.

“Slim, dear, I'm so happy to see you! What are you doing here? I mean, what are you shopping for today?”

“Stockings and lingerie. Those Brits don't know what they're doing in that way. Now, they are brilliant with riding boots and hunting jackets, I'll give them that. But anything for the boudoir simply isn't in their wheelhouse, or imagination.”

“Boudoir?” Babe arched an eyebrow.

“Oh, Babe, not with my husband! How dreary! No, I have an assignation later on.” Slim looked her friend square in the eye, and Babe felt a flood of relief. So, not with Bill. Thank God. Slim would never do that to her, unlike some of her other so-called friends.

“You don't have to tell me who.” Babe patted Slim's arm. “I'm simply happy that you're finding a way to have a little fun. Kenneth is…well, so very British.”

“You mean so very dull and hellishly snobbish. Well, I married him, so what's that say about me?”

“It says you never have gotten over Leland,” Babe answered. Slim's blue eyes filled with tears, her nose reddened, and she nodded, before turning away to look at a pair of brown suede gloves. “What an idiot I was, to have fallen in love with my own husband,” Slim whispered, blinking furiously. “Tell me about Truman. Have you seen him lately? Is the little guy insufferable with success?” And just like that, Slim was once again her fun, breezy self; she tucked her arm in Babe's and the two headed to the elevator, where Slim instructed the boy to take them up to the lingerie floor.

“Yes, two days ago. He gave me a copy of
In Cold Blood
to read, and it was fabulous. Wasn't it, Slim? Simply stunning?” For despite her tutelage under Truman's watch—the mountains of books he made her read, some enjoyable (Jane Austen, for instance) others not (goodness, she simply loathed the Proust, which had disappointed Truman to no end)—Babe still was unsure of her judgment where literature, politics, the arts were concerned.

“God, yes. He's brilliant. The book's brilliant. I couldn't put it down. And he knows it, too, the little devil. But I have to say he's done me a great favor. He wants me to handle the film rights to it, because he knows I haven't a penny, really, to call my own. Or should I say a shilling? Anyway, that's very generous of him.”

“Oh, it is!” And Babe felt herself glow from within, proud of Truman and happy for Slim.

“I wonder,” Slim mused, freshening up her lipstick, quickly, before the elevator stopped. “I wonder if he'll still have time for us, the little people. Now that he's such a big fat famous star. And I mean that, literally. He's putting on weight.”

“Oh, Slim,” Babe automatically admonished. But she didn't say anything else, and Slim, snapping shut her gold compact and slipping it back in her purse, caught the pucker of a frown between Babe's beautiful eyes.

The elevator stopped and the two of them exited it, finding themselves in a discreet boudoir—the lights were even subtly dimmed—full of lace and satin and silk. Antique chests with drawers overflowing with garter belts, black silk stockings. Armoires opened to display stunning pink peignoirs trimmed with dyed rabbit fur, wispy little negligees of delicate lace, so fragile-looking, like the most intricate spiderweb. An entire trunk full of a make-believe bride's trousseau—ivory satin negligees, matching robes, silk panties in every pastel, frothy bed jackets. Over in a corner were a few sensible cotton pajamas, men's style, hung on scented padded hangers.

And discreet young saleswomen everywhere, withholding judgment, assisting, measuring, fetching.

“My treat,” Babe announced, tucking her arm in Slim's. “I'm completely at loose ends today, but I can't think of a thing I need. It would bring me great happiness to buy something for you, Slim. There's nothing more I'd like to do today. Truly.”

“No, Babe, I couldn't.” Slim shook her head vehemently. “I'm perfectly fine.”

“I insist. Please, Slim, please.” And Babe dropped her friend's arm; there was a look of quiet desperation in those brown eyes that Slim hadn't seen in a very long time, since before Truman. “Please let me. It would mean so much, you see. To help, in any way—”

“I see.” And Slim did see; she saw that her friend was panicked, terrified, although Slim couldn't begin to think of the reason. Babe was at the peak of her beauty; just to look at her made one feel restful, refreshed. Those sculpted cheekbones, the deep-set eyes; her jawline was still firm, her skin creamy and unlined. Even her hair, more silver than black now, looked striking. And she was as trim as ever; she never seemed to put on a pound. Indulgence was not in Babe's nature, and she was reaping the benefits now, unlike Slim, who automatically patted her chin, feeling the flesh give way, even wiggle a little.

Was Slim jealous of Babe? She told herself she wasn't; she told herself that Babe was her one and only female friend, the only one she'd never felt in competition with, because there simply was no comparison. Babe was in her own class. And Slim always saw how that could be a lonely existence, one that she herself didn't really covet. She saw it in sharp relief today; Babe had been overjoyed to see her, but not before Slim had caught a glimpse of raw fear in her friend's eyes.

“Then thank you very much, dearest Babe.”

“Oh, good!” And Babe beamed; the pucker between her eyes relaxed. “Let's pick something out that's perfect.”

“Yes, perfect.” Slim followed Babe, who now strode through the department with confidence, her exquisite taste unquestionable as she sorted through hangers, delicately picked through piles. Soon she had a small but absolutely breathtaking assortment of gowns in Slim's exact size—God, for the days when she was a six!—and Slim found herself in an elaborate dressing room filled with more furniture than most small apartments, trying them all on.