“He wants to seduce me?”
“Well, I’m not sure Bill is much of a seducer, darling. He’s more of a ‘launch an offensive’ kind of man, I suspect. After all, he’s friends with Eisenhower.”
“Those World War Two men! They never stop preparing for battle.”
“No, they don’t. But to get to the matter at hand, dearest Carol, I know you’re just mad about this actor of yours—although, for the life of me, I can’t understand why—but I thought this would be good for you. Bill can pull some strings, of course; he’s a very influential man in the industry. And really, he’s quite enamored. You’re just his type.”
“Married?”
“Silly! No, blond and dishy.”
“He’s married to Babe, for God’s sake! Babe Paley! I couldn’t even come close to her—look at me!” And Carol gestured to her frilly peasant dress, the type she liked to wear in order to emphasize her femininity. Truman was tired of trying to get her into more tailored, stylish clothes; he’d simply given up on it.
“Darling, Babe is perfection. And my dearest angel of a friend, so you must know how this pains me. But between you and me, Babe and Bill—well, they aren’t exactly intimate in that way. You know these jet-setting married couples! They are very his and hers. It’s in their blue-blooded DNA.”
“No, Truman, I won’t do it. Tell Bill Paley to—well, tell him to do whatever you think he should do, but I’m not going to be his conquest. I like Babe. I admire her.”
“Yes, I foresee that’s going to be the trouble,” Truman agreed sadly. “Most of the women I know do. What about your dearest friend Gloria? Gloria Vanderbilt? She’s not exactly Paley’s type, but she might do. Do you think she’d be interested?”
“Truman, dear, listen to me.” Carol rose, reaching for her handbag, leaving Truman the check. He was very generous to his longtime friends, those whose star hadn’t risen to his heights. He was always happy to pay.
“Yes?”
“Don’t be a pimp. It doesn’t suit you. You’re too short.”
Truman clapped his hands delightedly and reared his head back, roaring with laughter.
“Oh, Carol, you are divine!”
He was still laughing as Carol traipsed out of the restaurant. But he also still had a problem. Until he saw Pamela Churchill enter the room and spot him seated alone at his table. She broke into her fake smile, her British teeth perfectly capped, courtesy of one lover or another. Truman couldn’t help but appreciate her porcelain British complexion, but that dress! Satin in the daytime? God, the woman really was just a common tart dressed up in sheep’s clothing—he couldn’t believe that anyone would be serious about marrying her. She’d been kept by every important man alive—Gianni Agnelli, Averell Harriman, a Rothschild or two. Even Paley had paid for her, during the war, or so the rumor went—when he wasn’t sharing her with Ed Murrow. And now, Leland Hayward—
She saw him, waved regally, and started his way.
“Pamela! Darling! You look divine!”
“Oh, Truman, you love,” Pamela murmured in her posh British accent. She exuded her famous charm; she fluttered her eyelids at him like a baby lamb, blushed like a schoolgirl, made him feel as if he were the only man in the world for her.
Truman appreciated the effort; he had to admire the woman for putting on the full act for him, knowing quite well he’d never take her to bed. Or buy her a piece of jewelry.
“I was just going, sweetheart of mine, but do have a wonderful lunch, won’t you?”
“I’m meeting Leland,” she purred. “He simply can’t allow me out of his sight for a minute! The poor man was absolutely neglected by Slim, who is a darling girl, but a trifle flighty.”
“He’s a wise man,” Truman replied, wagging his finger at her naughtily. Pamela giggled, and he paid his check, kissed her on the cheek, and left.
It was raining, a chill fall afternoon, the kind that made even Fifth Avenue look sordid and cheap, the sidewalks slick and carpeted with matted, moldy newspapers and trash. People were in a hurry to be anywhere but outside, so he found himself bumped by passing shoulders, poked at with umbrellas. But he walked slowly, his hands in his pockets, his head bowed, glasses blurry, streaked with rain. And by the time he got to the Waldorf, his mind was made up; he removed his coat, shook his head like a spaniel, dried his glasses, and took the elevator up to a top floor. Then he knocked on a door.
“Truman!”
“Big Mama! You poor darling!”
Slim Hawks Hayward looked awful. Simply awful. She had lost weight—living up to her nickname for the first time in years—but it made her look haggard, and not sleek and feline, as she’d been in her youth. Her hair was quite unkempt: stringy, and not freshly colored, so that you could see the darker roots coming in. She wasn’t wearing sunglasses, as she did most everywhere these days, and so he could see that her eyes were puffy and bloodshot.