“No, she wouldn’t,” pronounced Betsey the wise. “She wouldn’t have trusted him one bit. I can’t say that I’d blame her, either. But he is quite amusing. In small doses.”
“Well, I do know that Mama would never have approved of all this publicity—photographers at a party! She must be writhing in her grave!—but secretly, she’d cut out all our photos and paste them in a scrapbook. And she’d demand to be shown our gowns beforehand; heavens, the idea of us dressing ourselves, at our age!” Minnie laughed fondly; she did miss the force of nature that had been her mother. Gogs, for all her prickliness, still had been the compass, the rudder, the sail; the very wind driving her girls toward the safe harbor of wealth and privilege. And it was safe, Minnie had to admit with a sigh. And she was a coward; she knew she’d never have made a good poor man’s wife. None of them would have. Well, maybe Babe.
The pop of a champagne cork caused all three sisters to shift expectantly in their seats; Cristal was poured into their glasses, and Betsey raised hers first, to give the customary toast.
“To Gogs!”
“To Gogs,” her sisters repeated, and the glasses clinked, causing everyone in the palm-filled room to look, and gape, once more.
Three beautiful women—the three fabulous Cushing sisters. Gracing the Plaza with their presence; granting their subjects a glimpse, laughing together, careless, privileged, so exquisite that it was impossible even to envy them. They were simply unattainable.
Then the sisters drifted away, blowing air kisses, bestowing smiles of recognition to a chosen few as they made their way to their waiting limousines.
After all, they must see to their gowns; they must try them on one last time, in case there were any unexpected tears or loose sequins. They must remember the code to the vault, so that they could retrieve their jewels. They must make sure their husbands had a good dinner, a perfect cigar, so that they were in such good moods, they might actually be persuaded to dance tomorrow night—or at least not mind if the sisters danced with other men. And then, of course, the sisters must also go to bed early, with cucumber slices on their eyes, special facial masks hydrating their skin.
For hadn’t their mother told them always to get a good ten hours’ sleep the night before a party?
CHAPTER 14
…..
The morning of the party, Kay Graham went to have her hair done. Normally she just had a plain shampoo and set, but she was growing worried. Truman had told her of the elaborate preparations being undertaken by some of his friends, the really elegant ones, the swans, he called them—Marella Agnelli, Slim Keith, Gloria Guinness, Babe Paley. Kay had met them all—in fact, had been introduced to Truman by Babe, who was so elegant, so perfect, that Kay always felt dowdy next to her, no matter how nice a dress she was wearing. But Kay was simply missing that elegant, stylish gene, and she knew it, and besides, in Washington that didn’t matter so much.
But in New York, it did, and tonight she was going to be on display—“Darling, you must look divine! All the newspapers will be sending photographers! Television networks, too! All eyes will be on you, my darling, precious Kay!”
Truman meant to be kind, she knew. He was excited for her. But his words filled Kay with despair, that familiar self-doubt. Frankly, she wished she could just stay in her hotel suite at the Plaza and watch television or read a book.
But she couldn’t, and so, taking a deep breath, she grabbed her purse and ran out of the Plaza in her plain clothes—a cotton dress, low-heeled pumps. She hadn’t put any makeup on, as she normally didn’t wear any. She did plan to wear something—mascara, lipstick—tonight.
Grabbing a cab, she repeated the address given to her by Truman himself; in fact, he had set the appointment for her. “Kay, gorgeous lady, you have to see Kenneth. He’s the one, the only one.”
And certainly Kay had heard of Kenneth; after all, she knew the Kennedys when they were in the White House, and Kenneth styled Jackie’s hair. So, of course, Kay guessed that Kenneth’s might be a little busy today, the day of her party.
But nothing prepared her for the crush in front of the place. Nothing prepared her for the place at all, really; her salon in Washington was small, utilitarian, on the top floor of a retail building.
“Is this it?” Kay asked the cabbie, who shrugged and thrust out his hand for the fare. She paid it, got out of the cab, and couldn’t prevent herself from simply stopping, and gaping, like the tourist she was.