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.