And right now, this moment, maybe, perhaps, she was loved.
Babe quickly changed into a Dior day dress, white silk with soft blue polka dots, tight at the waist, with a bow to the side and a portrait collar—she supposed that was appropriate for a movie theater—reapplied her makeup, and selected a deeper blue Hermès bag. She put her gloves on, surveyed herself in the full-length mirror, turning around, craning her neck so she could see over her shoulder. One slight adjustment to her stocking, and she felt ready to sail out and face whoever might be looking her way: maids, waiters, salespeople, photographers, Gloria or Slim or Marella or C.Z. People—friends, families, strangers—looked at her, and they looked for her. They always had. It was a fact of her life. She must be ready, then. She must make it worth their while.
“Before we see the movie, I have a surprise for you.” Babe rejoined Truman in the drawing room. He had reverted back to being rather melancholy; he had not moved from the sofa to fix himself a drink, or to ooh and ahh at the paintings or antiques; he hadn’t followed her into the bedroom to sit and gossip while she got ready, so unlike him. No, he was still seated on the sofa, his spectacles off, his face in his hands; when he looked up at her, she could see he had been rubbing his eyes, as they looked small and tired.
“A surprise?” Now he did put on his glasses; she saw an interested little gleam in his eyes, and she was thrilled to have sparked it.
“A surprise.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see!”
And soon enough they were sailing through the marble lobby of the St. Regis, with its clouds and cherubs on the ceiling, inlaid floors, gigantic floral arrangements, and crossing Fifty-fifth Street, turning right on Fifth Avenue, and entering Tiffany’s. The top-hatted doorman’s eyes widened in recognition; he held the door open for them with a properly awed “Good morning, Mrs. Paley! Mr. Capote! What an honor!”
Truman’s face was truly gleaming now; he seemed to grow five inches.
“Oh, I do love Tiffany’s.” He sighed as he followed Babe’s lead; she strode surely down the center aisle, not stopping to look in any of the cases, for naturally, Mrs. William S. Paley did not shop like mere mortals; there were private rooms and corridors for her, employees whom the regular shoppers would never see. Hidden doors, soft chairs, teacups, and jewels brought out on velvet trays, just for her. Truman had never known this world, until he met her. “Oh, Truman, one never buys jewelry in public. It’s so dear of you, though, to think of it,” she once told him, when he wanted to pop into Van Cleef to buy her a trinket. And far from being offended, he was grateful for the advice. He’d told her that she was the “best finishing school in the world,” and she’d beamed.
“Tiffany’s is like a country club for the gods,” Truman said with a sigh. “I always think that, when I’m here.” And Babe smiled; the wooden paneling always did remind her of a club. A rarefied, exclusive club.
“Third floor,” she instructed the elevator man, who nodded and pressed the button. “I told you, Truman, dear, that I’d been asked to design a little display upstairs?”
“No, you didn’t, Bobolink. How thrilling!”
“Not really,” Babe said with a wry smile. “They asked several ‘society ladies,’ as I believe they refer to us. Gloria did one, and so did Marella.”
The elevator opened and they stepped out; in the display cases were exquisite place settings of china and crystal and silver, all tastefully illuminated. There was a room off to one side, where a young woman, clad in a dress, hat, and gloves that made her look forty, not twenty—already dressing for the role, Babe decided—sat with her mother, obviously registering for wedding gifts.
Babe slowed down and took Truman’s hand in hers; she was already smiling, anticipating his reaction, when she led him into another room and pointed to the display.
There, amid several boring, uninventive set pieces (Marella had set a wicker table with a china pattern of yellow roses and grapevines—“How typically, revoltingly Italian,” Truman whispered, while Babe shook her head in admonishment; Gloria Guinness’s table setting was equally uninspired—“La Guinness can’t disguise the peasant in her,” was Truman’s pronouncement even as Babe tried to shush him), was a flowered chaise longue that Truman recognized from Babe’s bedroom at Kiluna. Next to the chaise stood a round table holding a full place setting of bone china with a lattice-worked border, along with a silver coffeepot and a crystal glass filled with orange juice.