“Honestly.” Truman turned to Bill with a chuckle. Even a less keen observer of the human condition than Truman Capote couldn’t have helped to notice the hunger, the desire, in Bill Paley’s eyes as they followed the blonde through her maneuvers. Truman noted, but made no reference to it. He simply stored it away. For now.
“Everyone wants to be in a book,” he drawled exaggeratedly. “I’ve simply been deluged by women who believe they’re the model for Holly. Carol Marcus, Gloria Vanderbilt, Gloria Guinness, Marella, Slim, even. They all think that some part of Holly is based on them.”
“I don’t want to be in a book,” Bill said with a grunt. “I have no desire. I think it would be terrible, actually. To have people read something and think it’s about you.”
“Well, you’re an exception, then.”
“An exception to what?” Babe had suddenly inserted herself between her husband and her friend. With one arm behind Bill’s back and the other tucked into Truman’s arm, she surveyed her party with a beatific, satisfied smile.
“An exception to mere mortals. Bill, that is. He claims he’d hate to be written about in a book.”
“Oh, Bill!” Babe tilted her impeccable head up to him and laughed. She was exceptionally beautiful tonight; she seemed to have her own spotlight following her around, illuminating her features, making her eyes even darker, her cheekbones even more pronounced, her hair even silkier. Just to look at her—Bill smiled the satisfied grin of ownership; Truman, the incredulous grin of appreciation. Their gazes met behind Babe’s back; Bill’s eyes widened, as did Truman’s. So they had something else in common, too.
“But I think he’s right,” Babe continued, unaware of the slight jousting occurring on either side (Bill’s arm encircled her waist; Truman gripped her arm more tightly). “I would detest being in a book. Promise me that, Truman? Promise me you won’t ever do that? I know every woman here tonight thinks she’s Holly Golightly. But I—” And she shuddered.
“I don’t know how I could,” Truman said, and he knew it to be honest and true, as honest and true as Holly Golightly herself. “Any words of mine could never do you justice, Babe, dear.”
Babe blushed, a rarity. Bill could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen his wife blush, and each one was because of Truman. With Bill, she was so composed, always. Composed, and dignified, and untouchable. Impervious to abandonment or real emotion.
But that little blonde…now, there was a woman who a man—a real man, like Bill Paley, not some little homo like Truman Capote—could make blush. Pretty pink, from her cheeks to her little round—
“Bill, dear, I know you must be famished. They’ll bring in a buffet in a moment, full of your favorites, I made sure of it. I also reserved a table for you and for Jock and Betsey, so you don’t have to talk to anyone you don’t want to—”
“Never mind. I’m not hungry. And I think I’ll disappear now, Babe. I had a hard day.”
Bill, his eyes following that little blonde as she sashayed her way around the room, did not even glance at his wife’s face. “Truman, will you see Babe home? I give her to you. For now. And congratulations again. I’m sure it’s a terrific book, and Babe will make me read it someday.”
Truman laughed and grasped Bill’s hand in his own surprisingly strong grip. Babe, after an imperceptible intake of breath, kissed her husband on the cheek and whispered sincerely, a worried expression in her brown eyes, “You go home and go right to bed, poor darling! I’ll sleep in the drawing room when I come in, so I won’t disturb you.” Then she watched her husband stride through the room, his arms swinging in that commanding way of his, his grin, as he was greeted by everyone in his path, incandescent enough to light the room all by itself.
Truman turned Babe around, toward the bartender, just in time. Just in time for her not to see Bill Paley follow a writhing, red-satin-clad bottom out of the Oak Room of the Plaza.
“Now the fun will really start,” he whispered in her ear, delighted to see her wary eyes turn girlish, just at the promise of his voice. “Now we’ll have the best time ever, just the two of us!”
And Babe, hastily erasing the frown that had puckered her forehead, put her hand in Truman’s, trusting him.
Bill didn’t give either of them another thought. He was too busy convincing the little blonde to go upstairs, allowing her her maidenly protests, playing the game as well as any other man in his position, with his wealth, his appetites, his power. It didn’t take very long.
It never did.
CHAPTER 9
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