The Swans of Fifth Avenue (20 page)

Then the sisters drifted away, blowing air kisses, bestowing smiles of recognition to a chosen few as they made their way to their waiting limousines.

After all, they must see to their gowns; they must try them on one last time, in case there were any unexpected tears or loose sequins. They must remember the code to the vault, so that they could retrieve their jewels. They must make sure their husbands had a good dinner, a perfect cigar, so that they were in such good moods, they might actually be persuaded to dance tomorrow night—or at least not mind if the sisters danced with other men. And then, of course, the sisters must also go to bed early, with cucumber slices on their eyes, special facial masks hydrating their skin.

For hadn't their mother told them always to get a good ten hours' sleep the night before a party?

T
he morning of the party, Kay Graham went to have her hair done. Normally she just had a plain shampoo and set, but she was growing worried. Truman had told her of the elaborate preparations being undertaken by some of his friends, the really elegant ones, the swans, he called them—Marella Agnelli, Slim Keith, Gloria Guinness, Babe Paley. Kay had met them all—in fact, had been introduced to Truman by Babe, who was so elegant, so perfect, that Kay always felt dowdy next to her, no matter how nice a dress she was wearing. But Kay was simply missing that elegant, stylish gene, and she knew it, and besides, in Washington that didn't matter so much.

But in New York, it did, and tonight she was going to be on display—“Darling, you must look divine! All the newspapers will be sending photographers! Television networks, too! All eyes will be on you, my darling, precious Kay!”

Truman meant to be kind, she knew. He was excited for her. But his words filled Kay with despair, that familiar self-doubt. Frankly, she wished she could just stay in her hotel suite at the Plaza and watch television or read a book.

But she couldn't, and so, taking a deep breath, she grabbed her purse and ran out of the Plaza in her plain clothes—a cotton dress, low-heeled pumps. She hadn't put any makeup on, as she normally didn't wear any. She did plan to wear something—mascara, lipstick—tonight.

Grabbing a cab, she repeated the address given to her by Truman himself; in fact, he had set the appointment for her. “Kay, gorgeous lady, you have to see Kenneth. He's the one, the only one.”

And certainly Kay had heard of Kenneth; after all, she knew the Kennedys when they were in the White House, and Kenneth styled Jackie's hair. So, of course, Kay guessed that Kenneth's might be a little busy today, the day of her party.

But nothing prepared her for the crush in front of the place. Nothing prepared her for the place at all, really; her salon in Washington was small, utilitarian, on the top floor of a retail building.

“Is this it?” Kay asked the cabbie, who shrugged and thrust out his hand for the fare. She paid it, got out of the cab, and couldn't prevent herself from simply stopping, and gaping, like the tourist she was.

For in front of an enormous limestone townhouse, a stunning building with columns and pediments and majestic windows and a festive yellow-and-black awning in front, was a line of limousines, Town Cars, and cabs. She wondered if the president himself might be here, for in Washington, the only time you saw a crush like this was when the president or vice president was out and about, trailed by the Secret Service.

There wasn't a lot of honking; the drivers seemed patient enough, willing to wait. And emerging from the awning, popping out like BBs from a toy gun, were women. Gorgeous, stylish women far better dressed than she was, in designer dresses and furs; Kay immediately folded her arms across her chest, ashamed of her plain shift dress and cloth coat, acutely aware of her lack of jewelry and makeup. And on the heads of these women were concoctions worthy of Marie Antoinette: piles and piles of hair, most of it fake, bedecked with ribbons or feathers or jewels or sometimes all three. Walking with their necks stiff, their coiffures somewhat protected from the wind and drizzle of a late-autumn morning by loose-fitting plastic scarves and hoods, nevertheless each woman hurried to her waiting car, and the parade moved on. And on, and on; the line of black cars was endless.

Kay ducked her head and ran across the street, under the awning, and made her way through giant wrought-iron doors. Inside, she had to stop once more and take it all in, for she wasn't in a hair salon at all and wondered if she'd gotten the address wrong. She was in a mansion; a candy fantasy of a mansion with a grand staircase, polished floors from another, more opulent era—but the walls were papered in bright contemporary patterns of flowers and trellis, and around every corner Kay could spy cozy little nooks with ornately tented ceilings providing privacy, Turkish stools on which little manicurists perched, antique chairs, chandeliers, endless halls and rooms.

Climbing the stairs slowly, her hand on the railing, Kay tried not to be run over by manicurists and stylists charging up and down, their faces tense, perspiration on their brows, scissors and nail files bristling in their pockets. When she got to the top of the stairs, she gave her name to a frazzled-looking receptionist, who paged rapidly through a thick book.

“Graham? Graham?”

“Yes, Mrs. Katharine Graham.”

“Right. We have you with Marco, one of our new stylists. May I take your coat?” And the young woman frowned at Kay's worn tweed coat.

“Thank you.” Kay handed it to her, and once again felt ashamed of her plainness. For even the receptionist was dressed better than she was, in a gorgeous pink dress, her hair done up in the new fashionable bubble style, pin curls tickling her etched cheekbones.

“Come this way, please, Mrs. Graham.” Another, equally stylish young woman, with false eyelashes as thick as caterpillars, was beckoning Kay up another flight of stairs. “Are you going to the party tonight? Truman's party? We're so busy!”

“Well, yes, I am. Actually, I'm—I'm the guest of honor.” Kay felt rather silly saying this out loud; she didn't really know why she did. She guessed that she was a bit proud of the fact, after all.

“What?” The young lady stopped dead in her tracks, causing Kay to bump into her, and another woman, dressed in a wild Pucci print dress, to run into Kay. “You're the guest of honor? For Truman's party?”

Kay felt her cheeks burn, and she ducked her head again, feeling stares upon stares on her plain, unstylish figure. “Yes.”

“Oh, no!”

Kay raised her head and wondered what she'd done wrong. “I'm sorry?”

“Oh, no, this will never do! You can't be seen by Marco! Come, come, Kenneth will see to you himself.”

“But I don't want to be a bother; it doesn't really matter who does my hair—”

The young woman gasped. So did the Pucci-clad lady behind Kay who, upon further examination, turned out to be Kitty Carlisle Hart.

“Of course it matters! Kenneth would be crushed if he wasn't allowed to do your hair for the ball!”

And so Kay had no choice but to follow the young woman up still another flight of grand stairs, to a bright yellow room with the golden glow of an inner sanctum. And before she knew it, she found herself—plain dress somehow removed, so that she was now clad in a beautiful orange-and-pink poncho—in a black patent-leather chair that resembled a throne, with a young, puckish man with thinning hair, in a dark suit and tie, like a banker, hovering over her with his hands full of combs and brushes and enormous hair clips. On her right sat a very young woman clad in a similar poncho, probably a model, for her face looked familiar. On her left sat a woman with her hair half covered in elaborate ringlets, powdered white; the other half of her head was dyed jet black and hung limply, obviously not yet done.

Rose Kennedy, her hair freshly dyed and hanging straight, obviously waiting to be set, sat opposite, waving gaily, and Kay waved back, thankful to see a familiar face. Yet even as she waved to Mrs. Kennedy, Kay felt as if she had stepped through the looking glass. She wasn't used to pampering herself on the scale of a Kennedy!

“Mrs. Graham!” Kenneth—Kenneth himself! The creator of Jackie Kennedy's bouffant hairdo and Marilyn Monroe's flip—put his combs and brushes down and clapped his hands, causing Kay to gasp. “It's an honor to do your hair. What kind of mask are you wearing? Did you bring it? And your dress?”

“Oh, no, I didn't think of that—”

“Never mind,” Kenneth said kindly, with a sympathetic twinkle in his impish eyes. “Describe them to me.”

“Well, they're quite simple, really, just a white dress, in a robe style, with long sleeves, with these crystals—hematites, gray—around the neck and sleeves, and on the mask, too. It's white.”

“I think, then, something classic and chic. We'll set it, but then brush it up, from the face, secure it in the back very plainly and let the sides be, very sleek, very nice.”

“Oh, yes! Thank you!” And Kay Graham could have burst into tears; Kenneth seemed to know exactly what she had in mind. Not for her the elaborate coiffures, curls upon curls, fake pieces, odd dyes that she'd seen.

“I think that sounds lovely, dear,” Rose called to her in her brittle Boston accent, and Kay nodded enthusiastically. Then she allowed herself to relax and be pampered; someone brought her a tray, on which were tiny little tea sandwiches, a flute of champagne, a cup of broth. She nibbled, had her nails done, sat with her hair in rollers under the quietest dryer she'd ever experienced, watched as Kenneth created miracles on other women's heads, closed her eyes as he did the same to hers, once she came out of the dryer, and then—

“Voilà!”

Kay opened her eyes. She felt her face stretch into a smile so broad, so purely delighted, that she almost didn't recognize it, for it had been a long time, truly, since she'd smiled like that—beamed, actually.

But she looked wonderful! Oh, simply wonderful, and what a shame it was that Phil wasn't here to see her—but no, she wouldn't cry; she blinked away the few tears that sprang to her eyes. But he had been so handsome, and she so plain, and she always felt the difference even though he, when he was himself, never did. When he wasn't himself—

Well, that was it. He wasn't himself.

But now she looked so pretty! So young, her hair sleek and simple, but she would never be able to replicate it at home. It took someone as talented as Kenneth to make her more herself than she'd ever been.

Kenneth didn't have to ask how she liked it; he saw the tears in her eyes. He blinked his own away and sighed the satisfied sigh of an artist at the end of a good day's work.

Then he turned to do the same thing, all over again, to the next beautiful woman walking into his studio. Marisa Berenson. What a vision.

Kay Graham slipped away, careful not to muss her hair as she changed back into her dress, thankful that it had stopped raining as she walked outside, so afraid of disturbing her hair that she didn't even turn her head. But she had to hurry back to the Plaza to change, to have her daughter, Lally, make up her face (for Kay truly didn't know how), and to wait for Truman—dear Truman, kind, thoughtful Truman!—to knock on her door and escort her, Cinderella, to the ball.

Until this moment, Kay really hadn't been looking forward to it. But now she couldn't wait.

S
LIM, TOO, WAS AT
Kenneth's that afternoon, although she missed Kay Graham. She also—due to the brilliance of Kenneth's staff—missed Pamela Churchill Hayward, thank Christ! But she couldn't very well miss her this evening, and so Slim put herself into Kenneth's hands, knowing he would make her look beautiful.

She was looking forward to the party, even though she would see more ex-husbands and ex-lovers than she wanted to. But a party was a party, and maybe a good brawl would break out at this one—Truman once told her that was the sign of a really great party.

Although somehow she sensed that he wouldn't really think so, if it happened tonight.

T
RUMAN WAS ALL AFLUTTER.
He was simply exhausted by the phone ringing all afternoon in his suite at the Plaza; the Kansas group, the plain, darling people he'd met while researching
In Cold Blood,
kept calling him, keeping him abreast of their adventures (they'd had their hair done at the Plaza salon, their masks were all delivered, their gowns pressed). They were ecstatic at being invited to his party, and their enthusiasm touched him—really, it was nothing to have invited them, to have given their dreary lives a little color!—even if he didn't have time for it right now. The management of the Plaza had a flurry of last-minute questions about floral arrangements and details about the orchestra and did he want the buffet served at midnight or later? And about the security…that was a headache! They assured him his guests would appreciate a separate entrance, not through the main doors on Grand Army Plaza, so that some of them could avoid the inevitable cameras and onlookers.

Truman agreed—shuddering at the cost—even as he rolled his eyes. If he knew his guests, and he did, none of them would take advantage of this hidden entrance.

And then Kay kept calling, offering to help, and, sweet, kind soul that she was, it annoyed him to the point where he finally asked her to arrange for a light supper in her room for just the two of them, something they could enjoy before heading down to greet their guests. Even though they were dining at the Paleys', who were hosting the premier pre-party dinner. Still, they planned only to stop by for a drink before going back to the Plaza, as they had to be the very first ones there to receive their guests.

Anyway. Truman glanced at the stacks and stacks of newspapers surrounding him, all with some mention of the party. His party! The party of the year! The decade! The century!

Now it was time to dress, and he wondered for a moment if Jack was doing the same; dear, gruff, maddening Jack, who thought the whole thing a silly excuse, a ridiculous excess, oh, all the dreary things other people—people who weren't invited—were saying. “What a waste of time, Truman,” Jack had tsk-tsked. “You have a literary reputation to uphold now. A
serious
literary reputation.” But he'd promised he'd come anyway, and Truman simply adored him for that, and hoped against hope he would. He did love to show Jack off—when he was behaving.

Almost seven o'clock. Time to go down and fetch Kay. Poor, plain little Kay! God, he hoped Kenneth had done something marvelous to her; if anyone could, it was Kenneth. And he did hope she'd have a wonderful time tonight, the dear thing. Phil Graham's suicide had been tragic, coming after a lifetime of schizophrenia. Poor Kay deserved a treat.