The Swans of Fifth Avenue (22 page)

And while Alvin was content to sit and watch all night, Marie now wanted to dance. She gazed longingly at the dance floor; Truman was circulating, shaking hands. Most of the masks were off now—although at first it had been stunning, just stunning, to gape at the creations—someone named Billy had on a mask and headpiece that looked just like a white unicorn! But soon people discarded them, so that the tables looked as if they were littered with the corpses of a glittering zoo. And now the dancing was in earnest, and Marie's toe tapped, her hips shimmied, and she met Alvin's disapproving gaze with a defiant smirk.

“I don't care, Alvin Dewey! I want to dance. This is a ball, isn't it?”

Some young man passing by heard her, turned on his heel, held out his hand, and before she knew it, she was being whirled about in a fox-trot while the orchestra played “The Way You Look Tonight,” spun around and around until she felt her head snap back, and there were many eyes on the two of them, this intense-looking, dark young man with mischievous eyes and herself, plain little Marie Dewey of Kansas, all dressed up and twirling around in the Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel!

When the dance was over, everyone clapped, and the young man extended his hand toward her, and Marie bowed, giggling, and then she sat down and took a big gulp of champagne while Alvin glowered next to her, tugging at his tie, grumbling about some people making spectacles of themselves.

The next morning, Marie Dewey found out that the young man who'd spun her about so expertly was Rudolf Nureyev.

G
LORIA
G
UINNESS'S NECK ACHED.
Her head, too. For she was wearing such a heavy diamond necklace—the jewels the size of small eggs—that she knew, she told her friends solemnly, that she'd have to stay in bed all day tomorrow, to recover.

Truman found this hilarious for some reason. He laughed and laughed, and rushed off to tell everyone else what Gloria had said.

She narrowed her eyes, took a drag on her cigarette, and smiled at Bill and Babe, Slim, Gianni and Marella. Coolly, she surveyed her friends' gowns and found hers to be the most elegant, a simple silk column with jeweled sleeves, not too fussy. Babe—who had also chosen a Castillo gown, knowing full well that he was designing Gloria's—had gone a little too far, she decided, with her hairstyle and her mask. Supposedly she'd had three masks made, just in case. That sounded like Babe.

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.

J
ACK
D
UNPHY 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.

He still loved Truman. He always would. He loved his drive and ambition and his touching, thoughtful little gestures. He loved his wit. His morbid fascinations, which few people knew about—his dark broodings, which he allowed only Jack to see. Well, he supposed Truman let Babe see that side of him, too, but that didn't matter because Babe was a woman. And Jack liked Babe, too; he liked her warmth, her kindness, that sense of grave uncertainty behind the beautiful façade.

But Truman wasn't the same Truman Jack had met back in the early fifties when they were both young and poor and ambitious. Truman was successful now. Jack hated to acknowledge that Truman was the kind of person who was fucked up by success, but he suspected it was true. He'd always been a strange little combination of intense focus while he was writing and impulsive, scatterbrained gadfly when he wasn't. The gadfly was winning out, sadly.

Jack took a drink—rare, for he didn't drink much these days—and sat alone at a table, studying the party. Truman had boasted of the guest list, declared it a masterpiece of curation, a brilliant mix of people and types—Society, Hollywood, Broadway, the literary world, artists and dancers, plain folks such as the Deweys. But Jack had to laugh; no one was mingling. The Hollywood types sat together, so did the Broadway types—Alan Jay Lerner, that prick, was holding forth with Stephen Sondheim while Hal Prince looked on—and of course, Truman's swans all swam together in their tight, prissy little formation, turning their jeweled backs to everyone who didn't have several million in ready cash.

And Truman—look at him! Jack was ashamed, really; he was sickened, his stomach tightened, and it wasn't just the bourbon. It was the waste, the shameful waste, and Jack knew, even if Truman didn't, that there was no turning back from this night. It marked the end of Truman Capote, the serious writer, and it made Jack want to puke. Jack worked and worked, just as hard as Truman, and his novels were never successful, despite Truman's loyal support. And Truman, having written what Jack thought really was a great book, was straying down a different path now, and Jack knew that Truman wouldn't have the fortitude to turn back to the grind, the reality, of actual writing.

Truman wanted to be loved, and now he was—so he thought—by about five hundred of the most famous people in the world, and he'd written the book he'd said he was destined to write, and so what more did he have to work for?

Jack knew Truman too well. And he was sick for him, and for what it meant for the two of them, because they would never be the same together, content to spend their days isolated, writing, cooking, reading aloud to each other. Those days were gone now. This damn ball marked the end of the two of them, Jack and Truman, Truman and Jack.

Jack set down his glass. He got up, stretched, knowing that he looked damn good in a tux, even as he loathed the thing—Truman had quivered in fear of Jack turning up in dungarees and an old fishing shirt. “Please, Jack, do come. It won't be the same without you, and I want to show you off. But please, dear, don't embarrass me!”

As he heard the music change—Peter Duchin was very good at anticipating the mood of the room, sliding smoothly from more current music to the classics, some of which had been written by some of the distinguished guests—Jack bent down, touched his toes, lengthened his calves, those former dancer's calves.

Then he spied Betty Bacall at a table; the actress had been out there cutting quite a rug earlier with Jerome Robbins, that mean bastard. Jack had never danced for Robbins—he had for de Mille, in the original production of
Oklahoma!—
but he'd heard stories of him, how he was such a stingy, tyrannical son of a bitch. Which didn't predispose Jack to like him, or even be civil to him.

Jack approached Betty, reached out his hand; she smiled that cat's smile, narrowed those knowing eyes, and joined him on the dance floor.

She followed his lead expertly, improvised when he did as they glided gracefully to the tune of “The Days of Wine and Roses,” conducted by Henry Mancini himself, whom Peter Duchin had coaxed up to take the baton to his own composition. The two of them were a tall, lean, elegant pair; it was as if their bodies were built for each other, this dance, this party, this moment of simple elegance.

After the song was done, Jack felt a familiar gaze fall, warm as a caress, upon the back of his neck. He turned and locked eyes with Truman, who was standing on the other side of the dance floor; both their eyes filled with tears.

Jack gave him a gallant little bow, and Truman placed his hand upon his heart.

Then Jack escorted Betty Bacall back to her table, kissed her hand, and walked away.

Already, he was missing Truman.

F
RANK
S
INATRA WAS PISSED.

Why the fuck he'd come to this fairy's ball, he had no idea. Well, yeah, he had. Mia. Mia wanted to go, she said it would be fun, there'd be lots of people there he knew, it was
the
place to be. So he'd put up with it—wore a fucking mask, at least for about five seconds, before he ripped it off after some little dick in the crowd outside the hotel had called out, “Hey, Frankie Batman!” He'd rounded up a few acceptable people, like Leland and Pam Hayward, the Bennett Cerfs, Claudette Colbert, that classy old dame, and commandeered a table, handed a waiter a hundred bucks and asked for three bottles of Wild Turkey, and watched as Mia happily danced with some of the younger crowd.

Frank Sinatra, it need not be said, did not dance. Except, on a few memorable occasions, when he was much younger and hungrier, in the movies.

He stayed clear of Betty Bacall; that was an affair that had gone sour. Likewise Slim Hawks Hayward Keith, Leland's ex. This wasn't his scene, not all this fancy fag shit like the gilded mirrors and the fucking stupid masks. The room was too big, too crowded, too hot, too full of people he didn't give a shit about, and who didn't give a shit about him, and that was something that Frank Sinatra did not put up with, not at all.

But Mia. Mia wanted to come, because she was young and starry-eyed, and look at her now, out on the dance floor dancing the fucking frug or whatever it was, that thing where you threw your arms up in the air like you were having an epileptic seizure, gyrated your whole body, the whole damn thing. That wasn't dancing. Not in his book. What the fuck was he thinking, marrying a kid like that? But even now, he could hardly take his eyes off her.

He looked at his watch. Two
A.M
. Not too late to be up but far too late to still be at this silly kid's costume party. Who dressed up like this anymore? Not him, that was for damn sure. Next time Mia wanted to go to something like this she could—hell. Next time Mia wanted to go to something like this he would just say no. Forget it, kid.