Gloria had removed her mask almost immediately; why hide her gorgeous face? Babe, she noticed, had clung to hers far longer, out of loyalty to Truman’s wishes, but finally she had removed hers, too. As had most of the guests. Despite the fortunes spent on the masks—every milliner in town had been overworked—no one wanted to hide their famous faces.
Gloria found herself watching the young women, those glorious, ethereal creatures who were not adorned with gigantic jewels but who seemed to be the photographers’ darlings, nonetheless. Ronald Tree’s daughter, Penelope, was dressed as if for a burlesque Halloween party in black shorts and see-through tights. The black tunic over it was cut out so that her entire midriff was showing. Her hair was a travesty. That limp, ironed style simply hung on her shoulders like seaweed. She had pasted black triangles around her eyes. She looked like a ghoul.
But Dick Avedon was prancing about her, practically clapping his hands. So was Cecil Beaton. The whispers were that Penelope Tree was the sensation of the ball, the new face of fashion.
Gloria looked down at her hands; they were veiny now. No amount of gold or diamond rings could mask that, although her fingers were weighed down in jewels, anyway. She was still slim, could wear the youthful fashions like the miniskirts and the baby-doll dresses, if she wanted to. But it was hard work now. Gone were the days when she could—and did, back when she first arrived in Paris—find a good remnant of jersey, cut a few holes in it, stitch the hem, tie a belt around it, and look fabulous.
No, now it took work, discipline, days and weeks of dedicated effort, to look as fabulous as she did. She hadn’t eaten in a week, so that she could be a wisp in her gown. She’d stayed in bed for two days, resting up. She had a facial peel two weeks before, and had slept with cucumbers on her eyes the last three nights. She’d had a long massage earlier in the day, and then sat under Kenneth’s hot dryer for an hour this afternoon.
She looked fabulous. For a fifty-four-year-old. But Penelope Tree had probably stayed up all night, thrown her outfit together at the last moment, and still, she was the belle of the ball.
Growing old was simply hell.
She was getting too tired for this, Gloria thought darkly. She’d spent her life reinventing herself, from Mexican dance hall girl to stylish waif to mistress of famous men, several staircase marriages—each more wealthy than the other—until, finally, she’d bagged the big fish, the fabulously wealthy heir to a British fortune. Through it all she’d been known for her looks, her style, her grace. She’d slept with Nazis to make it through the war unscathed; she’d even passed on a message or two from sympathizers. That’s how she’d met Loel Guinness in the first place.
She’d done what she had to, to survive, but, upon surviving, had realized it wasn’t enough. She wanted a greater reward for climbing out of the heap. And she’d claimed it, sitting atop a pile of cash and houses and yachts and cars and planes and Balenciaga dresses and jewelry so impressive, it ought to have been in a museum and probably was, at one time. Or would be, later.
But she’d claimed it, earned it, because of her drive, yes, but mostly because of her looks and youth. What the hell was she going to do, once they were gone? Once the Penelope Trees, the Jean Shrimptons, the Twiggys of the world took over? What use would she be then?
Gloria smiled as Babe murmured something in her ear; she really wasn’t listening. But she reached out to her friend for a moment and the two women exchanged a look full of sympathy and understanding, of regret and longing and resignation and so much sadness, Gloria felt her heart constrict, her head ache even more.
Then she turned away and looked back out at the dance floor, now full of young people bouncing up and down to some loud music with a heavy beat.
She didn’t recognize anyone at all.
—
JACK DUNPHY WAS DETERMINED not to have any fun.
He despised this thing that Truman had done, this frivolous, flimsy charade he’d spent so much time creating when he should be writing. Jack loathed the idea of so much money spent, money that, well, yes, Truman had earned, and could spend however he wanted, but didn’t Truman remember how recently he hadn’t had any money at all? The money should have been saved.
But more than anything, Jack hated the people that Truman had gathered, the glittering, chattering—God, his ears throbbed from the noise, the orchestra and the mad laughter and the screeches of recognition—sycophants that Truman collected as he collected those damn antique paperweights of his that cluttered every surface. Well, Truman had his own apartment now, which Jack did not visit as much as Truman would have liked. So the paperweights, like the people, filled the space that Jack himself had once filled.