“And,” Truman drawled, relishing the spotlight, the beauty of his swans, their glorious heads all turned toward him, “she really is a mess, the poor girl. An insecure mess, and, honey, you wouldn’t believe the hygiene! Nonexistent. Truly. She smells. Marilyn Monroe reeks! That’s why none of her leading men can stand her.”
“Oh!” A collective, superior gasp, champagne flutes lifted, jeweled throats exposed.
The game continued—“Mamie Eisenhower!” And Truman, his face red with merriment, as each and every one had held up Breasts, except for Slim—who called out, “Ike!”—took a sip of champagne, leaned back in his chair, and sighed contentedly. “Oh, you are all so gorgeous! I could sit here and look at you forever and ever.” And they knew they were safe from the game, safe from exposure; this wasn’t about them, not at all. This was about the others. And so they could play it unreservedly, and did; even Babe, who normally did not stoop to such lows. No one had ever heard Babe Paley say a catty thing about anyone else, and here she was holding up her Face-lift card and giggling like a twelve-year-old.
Good for her, thought Slim, watching. She needs something like this, for all that she has to put up with. And in that moment, Slim decided not to be jealous of the relationship between Truman and Babe, after all. She had been; everyone was. It was the talk of the town. What is going on with the Paleys and Truman?
Because Truman was suddenly there, not just in Babe’s coveted orbit but in her Givenchy pocket, her Hermès handbag, her Wedgwood teacup. And Bill Paley, notoriously stingy with his wife’s company even as he had so little regard for it, didn’t seem to mind at all; in fact, he welcomed Truman’s presence in his wife’s life, and seemed to enjoy it in his own. They were a trio, a peculiar little trio made up of the most powerful man in television, the most beautiful woman in New York, and the most darling, fey—and bitchy—of all the literary darlings. Truman had his own room at all their homes; he had an open invitation to use the CBS jet. It was known that Bill had given him some advice concerning money and investing; it was whispered that, on more than one occasion, Truman had even managed to coerce Bill Paley into singing “Danny Boy” around the fire after dinner, and had taken him down to the Village one evening to see a drag show.
Who was who in this relationship? Was Truman the child, and Bill and Babe the parents? Were Truman and Babe naughty siblings? Were Truman and Babe maybe—more?
Or was it Bill and Truman?
Oh, the possibilities! Slim’s head buzzed to think of them. She decided, for now, only to be happy for her friend. Who had never, in all their years of friendship, pounded her fists on the table and laughed as girlishly, as giddily, as she was doing right now.
And if anyone deserved that, it was Babe Paley. Slim, more than anyone, knew that.
“Oh, look!” Truman did not lower his voice, and Gloria frowned regally, in disapproval. But Slim looked, and her pulse quickened, the corners of her mouth began to tickle. Oh, this was good. This was very good, indeed!
For who was walking in the front door of Le Pavillon but Elsie Woodward and her murderess daughter-in-law, Ann?
“Can you believe it?” Truman’s voice finally did drop. “Oh, girls, tell me all! I was out of the country when it happened, but you were here! I only heard the barest, driest, dullest of facts. Is it true? Did Ann shoot Billy Woodward in cold blood?”
“Yes!” Gloria hissed, shaking her head. “She most certainly did!”
“And she claimed it was a prowler!” chimed in C.Z.
“She said it was in self-defense!” Slim piped up.
“She claimed it was too dark to see,” Pam added throatily.
Babe didn’t say a word; she merely arched an eyebrow.
“Oh, someone tell! Tell it all,” Truman begged, throwing his napkin down and climbing up on his knees, so that he was bouncing up and down like a little boy. And they all laughed to look at him; who could resist such an audience?
And so, with an imperceptible nod from Babe, Truman’s swans fluttered their bejeweled hands, swarmed about him, and began to hiss:
The Story of the Murderer and the Martyr
We all remember when Ann started showing up.
(“I don’t,” said Gloria, “because I was still living abroad.”)
(“Doing what?” asked Slim, with a malicious grin that Truman couldn’t help but notice; his ears practically bristled like a cat’s.)
(“Never mind,” said Gloria, waving her hand regally.)
Anyway. It was during the war. Ann, Ann—what was her name then, anyway? Cryer? Crower? Something like that. It didn’t matter. She was from Kansas. So it just didn’t matter.
Ann was a radio actress—not bad, either. And a showgirl, of all things! But she started showing up with Bill Woodward, the father. Just popping up wherever he was. Elsie, the dear (“Poor Elsie,” Marella whispered), turned a blind eye, as one would imagine. We all love Elsie (“Poor Elsie,” Gloria murmured). Who doesn’t? She’s truly beloved. She really does take her charity work to heart, her position in society.