“I hate Truman,” Gloria snarled. “I despise him. But I don’t want to lose him. I don’t want to lose them both—oh, what hell it is, Slim! What hell it is to grow old! Men don’t ever grow old, they just get more and more distinguished, desirable, even—look at some of these old farts, our husbands, still on the prowl! Babe is lucky—yes, I said that! She’ll never grow old. Old and undesirable. Like me. Like all of us.” Gloria’s voice quavered; her hand was trembling as she raised her champagne flute to her lips. She never voiced these fears, these demons that chased after her with flaming daggers.
“I wonder,” Slim mused, as if she hadn’t heard Gloria at all, and perhaps that was for the best. “Speaking of men, I wonder.” Her hand shook as she adjusted her eyeglasses, so that she could see properly again. “What do you think Bill Paley’s going to do to the little homicidal maniac? What on earth do you think Bill is going to do to Truman, after this?”
Pam shuddered, her cleavage bouncing; Marella grimaced.
“Whatever it is,” Gloria growled, those Latin eyes gleaming dangerously, “I do hope I’m there to see it.”
CHAPTER 8
…..
William S. Paley was hungry.
William S. Paley was always hungry; his mother never failed to remind him how exhausted she had been when he was a baby, feeding him ’round the clock, until finally she just couldn’t take it anymore and weaned him early. She also never failed to remind him how she hadn’t had to do that with his sister, who was a much more reasonable child in every way.
Bill couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t rise and think, first thing before his feet hit the floor, What am I going to have for dinner? And, of course, before dinner there was breakfast, lunch, snack after snack, dinner after dinner, even; invariably, he was ravenous again around midnight, and Babe had installed a separate kitchen off his bedroom in all their homes, completely stocked with eggs and cheeses and salamis and breads, cookies, sliced vegetables, whole roasted chickens in the refrigerator.
He was a big man, that was true; not heavy, but tall and rawboned. His stomach was simply the part of his body that claimed most of his thoughts. He didn’t pay much attention to his hands or his feet, or his broad shoulders or even his graying hair, beyond ensuring that the whole machine was always encased in the finest: custom-made shoes and suits from Savile Row and silk ties. But his stomach was always on his mind. Craving everything, fearing emptiness.
So he rolled his chair away from his desk, the chairman of the board of CBS, and wandered into a little kitchenette off his office; this, too, was always stocked by someone. Maybe Babe; he didn’t really know. He rummaged through the shelves, opened the refrigerator, and questioned his stomach carefully. Did he want a sandwich? Foie gras? Scrambled eggs? Something was required to fill him up again, give him the fuel he needed to get through the day—even though he’d had lunch only two hours ago at 21 with the head of Frigidaire, one of CBS’s biggest advertisers.
He hated 21. He detested the whole artificial clubby atmosphere of it, the dark paneled rooms, low ceilings, the cast-iron jockeys lined up in front. But he was supposed to like it, he knew; it was one of the places he was expected to frequent—and advertisers expected to be taken—and so he did. He knew how to play the game, when it had to be played.
Bill decided on a sandwich. Opening up a breadbox, he eyed a large rye bread from Carnegie Deli, not even sliced. There was also an unsliced baguette. He chose the baguette, laid it out on the bread board, and, taking a bread knife, sliced the long loaf lengthwise.