“Babe wouldn’t have minded, I don’t think, if Truman had been there,” Slim said, and the others gasped in shock. “No, really. Do you know what she said, before she died?”
“Nothing about him, at least not to me. You know, I saw her the day before,” Gloria said icily.
“I saw her the evening before,” Pamela pointed out.
“I was in Palm Beach,” C.Z. said glumly. “But I telephoned that night.”
“Anyway,” Slim interrupted. “She told me that she had betrayed Truman, and not the other way around.”
“No!” All four gasped.
“Yes. She said that he’d thought we loved him, and that if we really had, we’d forgive him anything. That he was trying to test us, to see if we did, after all. And so we failed him.”
“I never said I loved him!” Gloria was aghast, she began to twitch all over. “How dare he? He was amusing, that’s all. Amusing, for a while. Talented, yes, of course, once upon a time. But no longer. And—not to speak ill of the dead”—she crossed herself vehemently—“but Babe is—was—an idiot, a softhearted idiot, to think any differently. He betrayed us. Finis!”
“You know how I feel about it all,” C.Z. drawled, and everyone else stiffened in preparation, for they did know. “You have only yourselves to blame, not Truman. I think he’s a helluva lot of fun—well, not lately, but back then, although he did bring me to that Studio Fifty-four thing, which was exciting, but I wouldn’t go back—but the point is, I never told him anything important. Not a thing. I kept it all fun and light with him, and so he had nothing to use. You all should have done the same.”
Slim, observing Gloria’s neck begin to tense, her fingers fumble with the cutlery, hissed a warning: “Remember what we’re here for, girls. We’re here for Babe. For her. I shouldn’t have brought it up. Never mind.”
Gloria rose from her chair, stretched a little, balancing on the tips of her toes. Something in her knee popped, though, so she sank back down.
“In a way, Babe was the lucky one,” she said, staring into the water glass, sensing the clouds begin to gather, soon to crowd out the sun.
“Oh, Gloria! What could you possibly mean?” Marella shook her head.
“She was only sixty-three. She got out with her beauty still more or less intact.” Gloria smiled ruefully. “She didn’t have to grow old. Hellishly old.”
No one said anything, although each glanced at her own hands, then the hands of her friends, and where they once silently compared rings and jewels and bracelets, now they compared veins and wrinkles and dark spots.
“How long do you think Bill will last, before remarrying?” C.Z. nodded toward Bill, surrounded by his friends, his children. He looked dazed; he was eating a plate of Babe’s marvelous food, but methodically, not with his usual gusto.
“Not long,” Gloria replied.
“I think he’ll stay single,” Slim said defiantly. “I think he’ll be fine, on his own. He’ll surprise us all.”
“No.” C.Z. shook her head. “If ever there was a man who couldn’t be single, it’s Bill Paley. I’m grateful my Winston died before me. He couldn’t have been on his own, either. Men like that—men who are so focused on one thing, one great, big thing—can’t.”
“I wonder how long Truman will last now. No matter what we think of him, I’m positive he’s devastated by this,” Pam mused, shrugging at Slim’s glare.
“Not long,” C.Z. said with a sigh of true concern. “Have you seen him on television lately? He’s killing himself, just killing himself. It’s like he wants to die, with all the booze and the coke and the pills.”
“Well, that’s one way to go,” Gloria retorted. “And not a bad one. If he’s really intent on doing himself in. He committed social suicide, and he caused a real suicide—poor Ann!—so who gives a damn if it leads to his own? Sometimes you just have to know when it’s time to leave. You have to understand when your time is over. Your time in the sun. Our time is over, you know. With Babe gone, now it’s well and truly over. The world isn’t the same.”
Slim narrowed her eyes at Gloria; apparently, she was the type of person who made someone else’s tragedy all about herself.
“Shut up, Gloria. You’re just feeling morbid today. So is everyone. I don’t know about you, but I intend to live forever.” Slim lit up a cigarette, wincing at the fact that she didn’t have to think of Babe anymore when she did. “As for Truman,” Slim retorted, inhaling in pure ecstasy, her eyes closed. “He’s like a snake—no, a cockroach. He’ll outlive us all.”
Then she opened her eyes; they were full of tears.
“But Christ, wasn’t it fun, back then? Back when we were young?”