The Swans of Fifth Avenue (3 page)

“O
nce upon a time…” With Babe, there was no question. She was a princess, a walking fairy tale. There was no other way to begin her story.

“Once upon a time, there was a beautiful Babe,” Truman said, prompting.

“Once upon a time,” Babe admitted, smiling shyly, ducking her head. “I suppose.”

It was that—her reticence, he decided. That was what elevated her from woman to goddess, from merely stylish to perfection itself. Her stillness, her grave smile, her quiet voice, her beautiful dark eyes that glittered only to show understanding or reveal some secret hurt, never pride or flirtatiousness. Or even, he thought sadly, wit. No, Barbara Cushing Mortimer Paley was not a great intellectual.

But then, she hadn't been brought up to be one.

“I was raised to marry well,” Babe finally said, with a simple, elegant shrug. “My mother was a force of nature, although not like yours. She would never have abandoned us. We were her life's work.”

“What was she like?”

“Gogs. That's what we called her, after our own children were born. Gogs Cushing. I loved her. That's all.”

“But what was she like?”

“She loved her family. She made a wonderful home for my father, who was always away at work—he was a brain surgeon, you know. He pioneered it, actually. And she taught my sisters and me that if we all stuck together, nothing could stop us. Or harm us.”

“But, Babe—what was she
like
? A pill-popper, like Nina? A whore, like Gloria's mother?”

“Truman!” Babe frowned, disapproving, as was only proper—but then she grinned slyly. “Gloria? Gloria Guinness?”

“Oh, don't pretend you don't know all about that! Honey, La Guinness was not exactly legitimate, shall we say. Her mother worked the streets in Mexico. Of course you know that!”

“Truman, Gloria's my friend. My dear friend,” protested Babe with a gentle shake of her head.

“But, Bobolink, darling—you don't mind if I call you that, do you? I have pet names for all my dearest friends! I can't stand formality when the heart is involved, can you?”

And Babe—who had not been called by her real name for years, yet despised the nickname by which she was so well known—shook her head, touched. And delighted.

“Now, Bobolink, how can we be friends if we don't gossip together? Just a little? Isn't that the most fun ever? Of course we love Gloria—La Guinness! She's divine! But isn't she just a
trifle
more interesting, knowing that her mother was a whore? Don't you admire her just a bit more when you see how far she had to come to get here?”

“Truman, I've always admired Gloria. She's—well, she's—”

Detecting the slightest bit of hesitation in Babe's not-quite-so-sympathetic eyes, Truman pounced. Like a kitten, dainty claws unsheathed, on a caterpillar. “What? She's what? Oh, do tell, Babe-a-licious—oh, that's even better! Do tell! What did Gloria do to you? What did she say?”

“Nothing. Gloria's a dear friend, as I said. But—well, she does have a habit. It's endearing, when you think of it. It shows she's still a trifle uncertain of herself. But when she invites Bill and me to join her and Loel on their yacht, every summer, she plays this little game.”

“Yacht! Oh, take me! Take me!” Truman bounced on his knees, clapping his hands, rumpling the perfection of the satin bedspread so that Babe bit her lip and practically sat on her own hands to prevent them from immediately restoring it to order.

“Of course! We'll take you this summer! You'll go with us, Bill and me. It will be tremendous fun.”

“What game? What does Gloria do?” Truman immediately sat back down, serious.

“It's nothing. It's amusing. But she'll tell me, a week before we go, ‘Babe, dear, this year we're going to be completely casual. No dressing for dinner. For anything! We'll be windblown and fancy-free!' So that's how I'll pack. Only casual clothes, leaving most of the jewelry behind. And then, the first night, there I'll be in linen pants and a silk blouse, and Gloria will arrive in the latest Balenciaga gown, draped in jewels from ear to ear. Stunning, of course. And she'll announce that we've been invited to a very formal dinner onshore. And I'll feel like a hobo. Then the next year, I'll fool her. I'll bring only formal clothes, and sit down to dinner so elegant, you could die. And Gloria will show up in pants and a blouse, her hair tied back with a scarf, and she'll say, ‘Why so formal, Babe? It's a yacht, not Maxim's! Where do you think you're going?' ” Babe laughed, a good, hearty chuckle, completely at odds with her porcelain perfection.

But Truman detected the exasperation in her eyes. And his own gleamed with catty delight.

“That's priceless! And horrid! Yes, it shows how insecure she must be, despite all of Loel's fabulous wealth.”

“Gloria's my friend,” Babe reminded him. His heart thrilled to her voice; it was so low, gentle, soothing. Nothing could ruffle it, he thought. Nothing could ruffle
her.

But then the clock on her mantel struck seven soft, discreet chimes. And suddenly Babe Paley was not unruffled. Panic flared in her eyes as she turned in horror to the clock. Her hands reached out in the first abrupt, involuntary gesture he had seen from her.

“Oh! It can't be seven! It simply can't be!”

“So?”

“But Bill will be home any minute. And I'm not ready to greet him.” Babe slid down from the bed and walked—gracefully, with her shoulders squared and straight, her long legs as strong yet supple as a ballerina's—to her dressing room. Truman jumped down off the bed and capered after her.

“Oh, Babe! What an Aladdin's cave!” He looked around in awe; Babe Paley's dressing room was nearly as big as her bedroom, and decorated in the same pattern of chintz from ceiling to floor. Her vanity was enormous, draped in beautiful pink fabric that echoed the chintz, and covered with crystal perfume flacons, powder puffs, mirrored trays, bottles of makeup devoid of any trace of fingerprints or smudges, silver-plated brushes (both hairbrushes and makeup brushes), several mirrors of different sizes—handheld, upright, lighted. Babe was seated on the vanity stool, studying herself in the largest mirror with the intensity of an artist assessing his just-finished painting.

“You look perfect,” Truman soothed her, sensing his role.

But Babe shook her head. “I always remove my makeup and reapply it just for him. But now I don't have time.”

“There's no need,” Truman insisted, putting his hands on her shoulders and peering into the mirror, gazing at the apparition before him.
She must be forty,
he thought. But her face did not give away such sordid secrets.

Babe was not a natural beauty, although you sensed that she had the potential to be. But something—some insecurity, Truman felt, instantly determined to locate its source—prevented her from showing it. No, Barbara Paley's style, her beauty, her legendary polish, was artificial, cultivated over a lifetime of discipline and discernment, and she did not take pains to hide the fact. She was heavily made up, eyebrows perfectly groomed and brushed and colored, those glittering, deep-set eyes coated in subtle, complementary eye shadows and liners and mascara. Those high, sculpted cheekbones were further enhanced, with the precision of a professional, by blush, several shades artfully blended together. And her skin, while luminous, was that way due to foundation, thickly applied yet somehow not appearing to be; buffed completely, no lines of demarcation, dewy-looking, fresh.

But still, it was makeup. Beautifully, painstakingly applied; you could gasp at the mastery of it, and appreciate the skill and time necessary. Babe was no blank canvas; her face was a work of art, and she, not God, was the artist. Her hair, too, so perfectly, yet naturally, sculpted and waved to give the appearance of insouciance, thick and brown but with silver streaks weaving through it, catching the light, so chic, and unexpected. Yet again, one sensed the effort that went into it, while marveling at the result.

And the clothes, the accessories! A still life, artfully arranged. Taken separately, they were not spectacular: black Italian loafers, perfectly tailored khaki slacks, a crisp white linen shirt. A glittering diamond necklace. But it was the way they were arranged, the shirt tucked in the front, not the back; the diamond necklace not worn about the throat, but wrapped casually about Babe's left wrist. Expected, yet not. Recognizable, yet unattainable.

And here was this woman, this icon whose face had graced the pages of
Vogue, Harper's Bazaar, Life,
peering worriedly into her mirror, taking a small brush and blending something beneath her eyes, blotting at her nose with a powder puff, a delicate blue vein on her forehead beginning to dance with tension.

“I hope he's not home yet. Oh, if I'm not there, standing in the hall, to greet him, to look wonderful for him—”

Suddenly there was a pounding on the bedroom door. Two brisk knocks, then the handle turned and he was there, striding into the bedroom, shouting, “Babe? Babe?”

Babe jumped up from her stool, swiftly swiped her lips with a lipstick, not a smudge or a smear, smoothed her shirt, and gazed at Truman with heartbreakingly helpless, uncertain eyes.

“How do I look?” she whispered.

“Perfect,” he replied. For it was only the truth.

Grasping his hand for confidence, a gesture that touched his heart, she sucked in her stomach and took a big breath.

“Bill, darling!” she cooed in that soothing voice. She walked unhurriedly into her bedroom to greet her husband, as if she'd been sitting in a beauty parlor for hours, idly paging through a magazine. “Oh, I'm so glad you're home! I've simply been bored all day without you. Would you like a drink, darling? I know you would! I'll get it in a jiffy. Meanwhile, you remember Truman, don't you? You two go downstairs and wait for me in the drawing room. I'll just change quickly for dinner, and get you that drink before you know it.”

Truman smiled, put out his hand. “Bill. I hope you don't mind that I borrowed your beautiful wife for the afternoon. But I return her to you now, no strings attached!”

William S. Paley, founder and chairman of the board of CBS, adviser to President Eisenhower, the man who discovered Bing Crosby, and Edward R. Murrow, and the zany redhead and her Cuban husband who were currently the most popular stars on that still-new medium called television, squinted down at the graceful, lily-white hand extended to him. He frowned at his wife, who stood before him, gazing worshipfully at him as if he were Zeus himself come down from Mount Olympus. He pulled himself up, all six feet, two inches of him, and grunted.

“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.”