Babe was up before Bill the next morning, as usual. After a short but heavenly night’s sleep on the drawing room sofa (she’d been able to take her teeth out, thank the Lord!), she’d risen with the sun, determined to call her florist’s private number and arrange a special early delivery. Then she’d rushed into the bathroom, made up her face, and rung for some coffee, delivered to her, naturally, by St. Regis room service, the waiter pushing in a mahogany cart with her own Wedgwood coffeepot and cup and saucer, and a silver vase with a peony in it, not a rose. As soon as she and Bill redecorated this small apartment and made it their city residence, she’d gone down to the kitchen and introduced herself to all the staff, thanking them in advance for their care and consideration. And asking them, if they pleased, never to put a rose on her tray. They understood, surely, that she and Bill wanted to think of this as a real home, not a hotel, and she so looked forward to doing just that, with their help.
And of course, she asked her secretary to record all their birthdays, and she never missed a one, sending a card with a little extra gift of money to each. She and Bill both were generous tippers, each week sending out little envelopes full of cash to those who made their lives easier. When she was out shopping, she often brought something back—something small, like a flattering lipstick or a silk-flower pin or a cigarette case—for a maid, or a particularly attentive bellman.
Thus, the peony and her own china, not the official St. Regis pattern. And the newspapers ironed, without her even having to ask.
“Thank you so much,” she told the waiter, a new boy with a complexion like a lobster, so skinny his Adam’s apple was as pronounced as his nose. “Andrew, isn’t it? I so appreciate it.”
And Andrew—Andy to his friends and family, but not here, not at the St. Regis where nicknames were not allowed—blushed, his face turning even more mottled and scarlet; he tripped over his own comically large feet on the way out, and thought to himself, as he took the service elevator back down to the kitchen, that he’d never seen a more beautiful gal than Mrs. Paley first thing in the morning. He thought of his own mother, probably just getting up in their apartment in Queens. In her scruffy old quilted housecoat, her hair still in curlers, no makeup on, her eyes puffy from sleep, creases on her face as if she’d slept on chicken wire instead of a lumpy mattress. Drinking her coffee out of a heavy mug while she watched the small TV in the kitchen, picking away at the chipped Formica on the table.
But Mrs. Paley! She looked as if she didn’t need sleep at all! She was wearing some kind of silk gown with a tie around her waist, and slippers that looked like real shoes, only with little puffs of fur on the end, and her hair was all done, and he thought, although he wasn’t sure—because he never could tell about these things, just ask his girlfriend, Sue—that she even had lipstick on. And her eyes weren’t the least bit red and puffy, not at all! Not a crease of sleep on her face, either.
Babe smiled after Andrew the waiter left; she’d read the awe, the appreciation on his face. And even if he was just a young man, a waiter, she enjoyed that, of course. What woman doesn’t enjoy being appreciated? To know that, first thing in the morning, was very special, indeed. And she savored the moment, lighting a cigarette, inhaling through her ebony holder, watching the closed door through the haze of smoke, half wondering if Andrew would pop back in for another glimpse, on the pretext of forgetting something.
But then she shook her head sternly. Oh, Babe! Stop being such a common girl. And she poured her coffee and dialed the phone.
Three hours later, after Bill had risen, showered, shaved, shoveled his food down his throat, kissed her cheek, and left for work with a grunt, there was a knock at the door. And Babe ran to answer it, her heart beating wildly. What was wrong with her today? She really was acting like a teenager!
“How did you know?” Truman had tears in his swollen, red eyes as he held out his hand; in it was a small vase of lilies of the valley, their sweet, bell-like flowers still creamy white against the dark green foliage. “How on earth did you know?”
“I just did.”
Truman fell into Babe’s arms; she grabbed the vase from him just in time. They walked into the drawing room, Truman’s head on her shoulder, tears streaming down his face.
“I am so blue,” he sobbed quietly as they sat down on a small sofa. “Just so blue. And you knew. You knew!”