And Papa. Finally, always, Papa. Had she ever been sexually attracted to him? Not in the conventional sense; the man was a mess. You could see how he’d been gorgeous when he was young; the bones were there, like archaeological ruins beneath a windblown canvas tent. But when she’d met him, back in the forties, Ernest Hemingway was no longer interested in things such as grooming and hygiene. He’d found a look—safari shirt; baggy, ratty shorts or pants; scruffy beard—and kept it, no matter the season or occasion. And he so rarely bothered to bathe, or wash his clothes, or trim his toenails, or clean his fingernails.
Yet. He was so muskily, powerfully masculine. More than any other man she’d met, and that was saying something when Clark Gable was a notch in your belt. So it was that, and his brain, his heart—poetic, sad, boyish, angry—that drew her. And he wanted her. Slim could see it in his hungry eyes, voraciously taking her in, no matter how many times a day he saw her; each time was like the first time after a wrenching separation. He made no bones about it, not even in front of Howard.
And Howard got a kick out of it. To tell the truth, it turned him on. It made him tear her clothes off at night, knowing that Papa was just in the next room, or tent, brooding about her, dreaming about her. To tell the truth, she got off on it, as well.
Well, why not? Sex is great. Sex is all. Was, anyway.
Oh, hell. When did it vanish, sex? When did it leave, pack up its bags, and take up residence elsewhere, leaving only a polite thank-you note for your gracious hospitality?
“I’ll have another,” Slim whispered, waving her glass, then tipping it for one last drop. The ice slid down and rattled her teeth.
“Your lipstick has come off,” Marella observed sleepily.
“So’s yours.”
“I’ll reapply it.” And Marella opened her purse and actually brought her lipstick out, before all four realized what she was doing and gasped. Gloria slapped her hand in horror.
“Babe would never do that,” Slim admonished her. “Babe Paley would never apply lipstick at the table.”
“She never had to,” Pam marveled. “How is that possible? I’ve never seen Babe’s lipstick ever smear or fade.” Slim, she noticed, had apparently applied her makeup with a trowel, and now it was sliding down her face, like melted frosting. Poor Slim. She did look like the wreck that she was; the bitter, resentful wreck who still behaved as if she was Leland’s rightful widow.
But Pamela simply was not to blame. Men, the dear boys, did need to be taken care of, and American women were particularly bad at that, so intent on having their own fun. Babe really was the only American woman of her acquaintance who knew how to keep a husband. Whereas British women, well, they were born knowing how to take care of men, their own—and everyone else’s.
Pamela had grown up possessing the gift: how to soothe and flatter and caress and purr and then ignore, just when the flattering and caressing got to be a bit too much. She knew how to cast a wide net and keep things friendly, no matter how distastefully they might end, so that she would be able to use one lover to help another, politically or in business. These men were grateful to her, and had paid her handsomely, set her up very well, and for a long time, after that disaster of a first marriage to Randolph Churchill (Oh, Randy, the only thing you ever gave me of any value was your name!), that had been enough. But then, one day she realized she was well into her thirties and known only as a courtesan, not a wife. And in the twentieth century—the prosaic, unromantic twentieth century—wives were more highly prized than mistresses. So she looked around and saw a husband who wasn’t being cared for, and determined to rectify that. Yes, well, it was rather a shame that the husband happened to belong to a friend of hers. But that was water under the bridge, in her opinion.
Oh, these Americans. They did tend to carry on and on about such things. Yet, of course, they did have the most money, the best houses, and the finest food, the most divine restaurants. She’d not regretted throwing in her lot with them, not once. Not even now, with wretched Truman causing such a row. It was still preferable to living in a drafty flat in London or Paris with her veiny hands and crepey bosom, wondering how she was going to pay her bills, clinging to the Churchill name like a tiara, a tarnished, dusty old tiara long out of fashion.
“Babe puts her lipstick on,” Gloria was saying, rather fuzzily. “Then she powders it. Then she puts it on again. Oh, and before she puts it on, she puts something else on her lips. I forget.”
“But even if it did fade,” Slim slurred, “she would never, ever apply it at the table. Babe Paley would die first.”
Marella gasped; no one spoke for a long moment. Gloria glared at Slim, whose eyes, behind those cat’s-eye glasses, were now brimming with tears.
“Oh, damn,” Slim said. “Damn. I didn’t mean to say that—I didn’t mean—”