Bill, who had been about to take another drink, froze. He sat for a minute—an eternal, bone-rattling minute—staring at Truman, his eyes betraying no emotion, no anger—but no friendliness, either. Then Bill rose abruptly, told him he had to meet a sponsor for dinner but Truman should take his time and linger, if he wanted. And then he was gone, with a quick but crushing handshake.
Truman watched him stride out of the room. Then he did take his time finishing his drink. He wasn’t going to be hurried by any insufferable waiters’ stares or whispers by shocked members. Right now he belonged here, with them, with men who controlled empires, who hobnobbed with presidents and kings. Men who needed him. Men who asked him to do them manly favors.
But then he felt his face burn; he was being ridiculous. He didn’t want to be these men, not really, for their lives were much more deceitful, full of darker corners where no light ever shone, than his. He was better than them, yes, he was; he had a desperate urge to jump up on the table and scream, “Yes, I’m a homosexual! And I’ve invaded your clubhouse, and you can’t do a damn thing about it! Does anyone want to take a picture, you men with your obsession with giant clubs and little balls?”
He chuckled to himself, wishing with every outrageous cashmere fiber of his being that he could do so. But he couldn’t—no, he wouldn’t. It was his choice, not theirs.
But he did take his time with his drink, inciting the maximum amount of discomfort possible. And on his way out, he whispered in the ear of the man he had seen dancing with the Puerto Rican, “Your secret’s safe with me, darling.”
But when he left, he had asked himself the question he hadn’t quite asked Bill Paley.
What about Babe?
Was it a betrayal to help her husband cheat on her? Well, yes. At its essence, it was.
But Bill was his friend, too. Bill was going to cheat on Babe with or without Truman’s help; he’d been doing it for years. Babe knew it. Hell, the entire city knew it.
Bill cheated on Babe and Slim cheated on Leland and Gianni cheated on Marella and Gloria cheated on Loel and Loel cheated on Gloria—and Loel had cheated on Gloria with Pam Churchill, come to think of it—and Truman, yes, cheated on Jack and Jack cheated on him. But it wasn’t cheating for the two of them because they both knew about each other’s conquests, discussed them in detail. The thing is, though, everyone stayed together. Everyone, for the most part, behaved, kept it quiet, out of their social circle—don’t shit in your backyard, Slim had once advised to him cryptically, her eyes red.
Everyone came home to each other, at the end of the day, and sailed out into the world and had their photographs taken together—Mr. and Mrs. William S. Paley at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, celebrating the opening of a new wing. Because that was what mattered, that was what counted.
And if he, Truman, could keep Bill happy so that he would keep coming home to Babe, who would be devastated if he ever did anything so old-fashioned as to divorce her, as Leland was apparently going to do to Slim, then wasn’t Truman performing a good deed?
Wasn’t he being a real man, helping out another man?
Wasn’t he being a true, loyal friend to Babe, ensuring that at least Bill wasn’t going to get the clap, and wouldn’t he be there for her, always, whenever she needed a shoulder to cry on, someone to pick up the pieces of her shattered heart and glue them together in a beautiful mosaic, something as glittering and gay and gorgeous as she was, giving her back her heart as a present? One that she would cherish forever, and be reminded of him—Truman—every single day that lovely heart beat gallantly, and never, ever hurt or leave him? And love him, love him as he deserved to be loved, finally?
Yes. Yes, that was it. He was doing it for Babe.
So he called up his longtime friend Carol Marcus Saroyan Saroyan (for she’d married Bill Saroyan twice) Matthau and invited her to lunch at 21. And after they had finished their salads, he asked her, “Do you know Bill Paley?”
Carol, an ice-cream blonde, all melting curves, creamy skin, and big, brown little girl eyes, shuddered. She and Truman had been friends ever since they were children, neglected children of Manhattan mothers clawing to gain a foothold in society. Carol was built for men; she was a vessel for every lustful thought, sentimental notion, they possessed. Truman was quite upset that she’d recently married some poor actor—Matthau what’s-his-name—instead of marrying into money. It seemed a colossal waste of assets, pure and simple.
“Bill Paley?” Carol pouted. “Yes, I know him. Slightly. He chased me around a table once.”
“Every man with a pulse has chased you around a table once, baby doll.”
“That’s true.”
“You must have made an impression, because Bill asked me about you. He wanted you to know that he thinks you’re extremely special. His ideal, I believe is how he put it.”
“So?” Carol barely touched the Manhattan in front of her, other than to suck on the cherry, like Lolita.
“He would be quite honored if you’d consent to be his guest at dinner some evening. Soon. Just the two of you, of course. A quiet tête-à-tête.”