But other than that one instance, Truman had arranged everything himself, obviously reveling in his role as host. He so rarely was, at least on this scale—although he was simply brilliant at putting together casual, intimate little last-minute dinners—and she knew it meant so much to him, to be able to do this. “I’m paying you back, my love,” he whispered. “I’m paying you all back. For all the generosity you’ve shown me.”
Who could fail to be touched by that? By that innocent, impulsive generosity? Who could fail to be proud of him, Truman Capote, achieving such heights, basking in the glow of well-deserved success?
Yet…
Babe felt a little shaky, at that, as she put the final touches on the dining room, adjusting a knife here, a crystal glass there, picking up a few fallen flower petals. She felt a little shaky a lot these days; she never seemed to have enough air in her lungs. She was out of breath no matter what she was doing, shopping or talking to the help or even simply lying in bed reading. Her stomach, too, always sensitive, acted up far too often.
Change. Change was in the air, that’s what it was. Bill was the same, she supposed; taking her for granted, trotting her out for shareholders’ meetings, showering her with the best jewels and clothing, not because she desired or even asked for it, but to reflect well on him and his taste. Screwing around, discreetly enough.
But her children were grown now; poor Kate and her nervous condition at boarding school, same as Bill Junior. Her eldest daughter, Amanda, was married to a young up-and-coming politician named Carter Burden and suddenly, to Babe’s astonishment, the Burdens were the “It” couple of the younger set.
Was Babe jealous of her own daughter? She asked herself this in times of honesty, and had to answer in the affirmative. After all, youth and beauty were fleeting and she was at the upper end of her prime, she knew it, faced it head-on—unflinchingly staring at herself in the mirror every morning and night, assessing, taking notes. She did everything she could to make the most of her assets while she had them; her hair was still thick and luxurious, although mostly gray now, defiantly so—another Babe Paley trend. Her skin was still firm, tight, due to repeated trips to spas and salons, daily facials, massages, electric treatments.
And, yes, perhaps a discreet tightening up, under the scalpel. She could admit this—to herself, anyway.
Her figure was still lean; no middle-aged pooch or hump for her, due to her devotion to a new form of exercise called Pilates—a torturous regimen of pushing and pulling and stretching. And of course she wore the best clothes, the most fabulous jewels—tastefully.
But the sixties weren’t about taste, were they? She wasn’t sure she would be able to accommodate these new times; Babe understood her style, had never given in to trends, but that didn’t seem to be enough anymore. And if she wasn’t the most stylish, the most perfect of them all, then—who was she?
Truman was the one who could answer that; he always had been able to. And despite her fears when In Cold Blood came out, he’d not really abandoned her or her friends; if anything, he’d thrown himself more fully into their midst, laughing louder, telling even more outrageous stories—“Oh, Babe, darling Babe, do you know what that awful Gore Vidal said about me this time? Of course, I drank him for lunch, so it doesn’t matter now”—dancing even more desperately (gyrating, shaking all over, his eyes closed, his face beet red, wispy hair plastered to his head), indulging himself in every way. But it wasn’t quite the same, at that; the moments when it was just the two of them were more precious, because they were more rare.
Truman was also drinking too much, and Babe had yet to mention this to him, although she felt she must, sometime. But lately, one martini at lunch was not enough; it had to be two, three, followed by brandy, and then on to the cocktail hour.
She must, mustn’t she? Mention this to him? If she loved him, as she most certainly did? They’d always told each other the truth. But the truth wasn’t always pleasant.
Babe bit her lip, glided back to her fabulous bedroom in her fabulous apartment on Fifth Avenue, twenty rooms, the penthouse, decorated fabulously by Billy Baldwin and Sister Parish with the usual fabric-covered walls, tented ceilings, priceless antiques and paintings—and Bill’s prized Picasso, Boy Leading Horse, taking pride of place in the entranceway so it was the first thing you saw when you stepped off the private elevator. It was a glorious apartment and Babe was proud of it, the same way she was proud of her figure and her face and her clothes and her jewels. It was all for show, it was all for prestige; figure, face, and apartment all equally photographed and coveted.
But outside the tasteful walls, it was all changing; already Babe felt as much a relic as the gorgeous Louis XVI commode in the hallway. Prized and coveted—by a certain person, anyway. A person who looked back on the past, instead of forward to the future.