“Boudoir?” Babe arched an eyebrow.
“Oh, Babe, not with my husband! How dreary! No, I have an assignation later on.” Slim looked her friend square in the eye, and Babe felt a flood of relief. So, not with Bill. Thank God. Slim would never do that to her, unlike some of her other so-called friends.
“You don’t have to tell me who.” Babe patted Slim’s arm. “I’m simply happy that you’re finding a way to have a little fun. Kenneth is…well, so very British.”
“You mean so very dull and hellishly snobbish. Well, I married him, so what’s that say about me?”
“It says you never have gotten over Leland,” Babe answered. Slim’s blue eyes filled with tears, her nose reddened, and she nodded, before turning away to look at a pair of brown suede gloves. “What an idiot I was, to have fallen in love with my own husband,” Slim whispered, blinking furiously. “Tell me about Truman. Have you seen him lately? Is the little guy insufferable with success?” And just like that, Slim was once again her fun, breezy self; she tucked her arm in Babe’s and the two headed to the elevator, where Slim instructed the boy to take them up to the lingerie floor.
“Yes, two days ago. He gave me a copy of In Cold Blood to read, and it was fabulous. Wasn’t it, Slim? Simply stunning?” For despite her tutelage under Truman’s watch—the mountains of books he made her read, some enjoyable (Jane Austen, for instance) others not (goodness, she simply loathed the Proust, which had disappointed Truman to no end)—Babe still was unsure of her judgment where literature, politics, the arts were concerned.
“God, yes. He’s brilliant. The book’s brilliant. I couldn’t put it down. And he knows it, too, the little devil. But I have to say he’s done me a great favor. He wants me to handle the film rights to it, because he knows I haven’t a penny, really, to call my own. Or should I say a shilling? Anyway, that’s very generous of him.”
“Oh, it is!” And Babe felt herself glow from within, proud of Truman and happy for Slim.
“I wonder,” Slim mused, freshening up her lipstick, quickly, before the elevator stopped. “I wonder if he’ll still have time for us, the little people. Now that he’s such a big fat famous star. And I mean that, literally. He’s putting on weight.”
“Oh, Slim,” Babe automatically admonished. But she didn’t say anything else, and Slim, snapping shut her gold compact and slipping it back in her purse, caught the pucker of a frown between Babe’s beautiful eyes.
The elevator stopped and the two of them exited it, finding themselves in a discreet boudoir—the lights were even subtly dimmed—full of lace and satin and silk. Antique chests with drawers overflowing with garter belts, black silk stockings. Armoires opened to display stunning pink peignoirs trimmed with dyed rabbit fur, wispy little negligees of delicate lace, so fragile-looking, like the most intricate spiderweb. An entire trunk full of a make-believe bride’s trousseau—ivory satin negligees, matching robes, silk panties in every pastel, frothy bed jackets. Over in a corner were a few sensible cotton pajamas, men’s style, hung on scented padded hangers.
And discreet young saleswomen everywhere, withholding judgment, assisting, measuring, fetching.
“My treat,” Babe announced, tucking her arm in Slim’s. “I’m completely at loose ends today, but I can’t think of a thing I need. It would bring me great happiness to buy something for you, Slim. There’s nothing more I’d like to do today. Truly.”
“No, Babe, I couldn’t.” Slim shook her head vehemently. “I’m perfectly fine.”
“I insist. Please, Slim, please.” And Babe dropped her friend’s arm; there was a look of quiet desperation in those brown eyes that Slim hadn’t seen in a very long time, since before Truman. “Please let me. It would mean so much, you see. To help, in any way—”
“I see.” And Slim did see; she saw that her friend was panicked, terrified, although Slim couldn’t begin to think of the reason. Babe was at the peak of her beauty; just to look at her made one feel restful, refreshed. Those sculpted cheekbones, the deep-set eyes; her jawline was still firm, her skin creamy and unlined. Even her hair, more silver than black now, looked striking. And she was as trim as ever; she never seemed to put on a pound. Indulgence was not in Babe’s nature, and she was reaping the benefits now, unlike Slim, who automatically patted her chin, feeling the flesh give way, even wiggle a little.
Was Slim jealous of Babe? She told herself she wasn’t; she told herself that Babe was her one and only female friend, the only one she’d never felt in competition with, because there simply was no comparison. Babe was in her own class. And Slim always saw how that could be a lonely existence, one that she herself didn’t really covet. She saw it in sharp relief today; Babe had been overjoyed to see her, but not before Slim had caught a glimpse of raw fear in her friend’s eyes.