The Crasher (20 page)

Poppy was twenty-two minutes late for lunch. A record, she confided, usually she was much later. Although Ginny had called
and asked for the date, Poppy had considerately asked one of her two “assistants” to book the table at Le Cirque, where, she
told Ginny over the phone, “you have to be known to get the right table.” Ginny sat slumped at it in her smoky-gray suede.

Except at Thanksgiving and Christmas, she never drank at lunch. Today, it was a necessity. She ordered a kir and drank
it down so fast it might have been colored water. She was in despair. Her whole life had just been turned upside down. It
seemed impossible to believe, but Gosman was closing his business.

She stared into space. The day had started so happily, a red-letter day when she was going to convince Poppy not only that
she could turn her into a fashion plate, but also that as a designer with a future, she was someone Mr. Svank should back,
in order to add more millions to his trillions.

She’d left the loft in the morning, all prepared with a business plan. She had sketches to show Poppy of the kind of clothes
she should wear to impress the judges of the Best Dressed list—if that’s what Svank still wanted for her. And she was wearing
her own knockout suit, sure something momentous was going to happen.

It had happened all right.

At ten-thirty Gosman had come into her office and, flinging his arm around her shoulder, had walked her back over into his.
When he shut the door, his face white and tired, Ginny’s stomach had turned over. He didn’t waste words. He was ill; he was
tired; the business wasn’t doing well. Unlike her daydream he wasn’t leaving the business in her talented hands; he was closing
it down. Finito.

“How can a business where everything is continually on sale be anything other than sick? Now, I’m sick, too.”

“But what about your accounts? Neiman Marcus, Del-Ann’s…” She’d reeled off a list of powerhouse U.S. stores, the sales they’d
projected for the year (ten million dollars), the women who adored his clothes, but he just sat slumped, shaking his head.

“Too late, too late, Ginny. I’ve filed for Chapter Seven. You’re supposed to know about finance. You know what that means.”

Yes, she did. Bankruptcy protection from the hungry creditors who’d start pounding on the door as soon as the news got out.

“I’ll try to get you another job. It won’t be easy, despite
your talent. Retail sucks; too many manufacturers, too many clothes at too many different prices. Too much competition.” He’d
put his head down on the desk and moaned. “I’m sorry, Ginny. I’ll give you six months’ severance pay, which is more than anyone
else will get.”

Now waiting for Poppy, as time ticked by, sitting at the right table at Le Cirque (in the corner, sharp right from the main
entrance), Ginny wanted to put her head down on the right tablecloth and weep, but of course she didn’t.

She hadn’t meant to tell Poppy.

“The world doesn’t like losers; only winners.”

“Smile and the world smiles with you; cry and you cry alone.”

Where had those well-worn clichés of wisdom come from—Alex? Or her father? It didn’t matter. Poppy only had to ask her, “How
are you, Jenny?” for the truth to come pouring out.

“I’m afraid I’m in a state of shock. My boss—I work for Everard Gosman as his senior design assistant, he’s closing the business.
I’ve only just heard. I was going to start my own business—in fact, I intended…”

Was Poppy listening?

It was hard to tell, as a succession of Italian waiters received from Poppy the sort of greeting Ginny reserved for long-lost
friends.

“Hel-lo,
Benito!
Kiss Kiss.”

“Hel-lo, how are you, Mario? Long time, no…”

“Paolo,
ciao, ciao, bambino
…”

“Svank can help you,” Poppy volunteered as the waiters took an intermission. For the third time since her arrival she opened
up a gold compact with her initials PG large and bold in emeralds and critically reviewed her Stephen Knoll curls.

“He can?” Relief, as hot as the crunchy roll Ginny took from a busboy, rushed through her. “Really, you mean it?”

“I mean it. You help me, I help you.”

Poppy looked bored with the subject. She changed it abruptly. “Don’t you have anyone in your life? Love life, I
mean? What about that cousin. You don’t really mean he’s your cousin, do you? Is that a blind or what? Are you and he—Sirio,
how are you?” Poppy screamed in a tone a couple of notes higher and warmer than those awarded Benito, Mario and Paolo. “Sirio,
you bad boy, where have you been? Meet my friend, Jenny…” Poppy smiled up into the eyes of the elegant Italian just arrived
at their table. Ginny guessed he had to be the owner of the celebrated restaurant.

He kissed her hand. Ricardo used to kiss her hand all the time. There was, she decided, very little difference in the kisses.
How could she have been so dumb?

“Ginny,” she said loudly, “Ginny Walker.”

Jenny, Ginny, who cared? Nobody, but she had to get through to Poppy somehow, to pin her down as she pinned her up. She was
lightheaded. Of course, she was. She’d been drinking in the middle of the day.

“Truffles, we have delicious fresh truffles today… a little light fettuccine with truffles… a baby chicken perhaps, with
a touch of madeira… portobello mushrooms grilled with just a trace of garlic…”

“Oh, you terrible fellahs, trying to make me fat…”

“No, no, no! No calories, I promise you, Miss Poppy.”

Ginny fixed her well-rehearsed “happy-to-be-here” Sophie smile on her face as the game of ordering Poppy’s noncaloric feast
of the Gods was discussed with winks and smiles and more hand kissing as soothing as the Sargasso Sea.

“Lobster salad, please,” was her contribution; she wasn’t at all sure it got through, but her appetite was long gone anyway.

Sirio had hardly turned away when Poppy said, “Can you get me on this fucking Best Dressed list or not?”

Ginny gulped. Will the real Poppy Gan please stand up. She couldn’t believe Poppy’s language. Was that what happened after
months, years of dealing with potentates like Svank?

“I can try.” Ginny smiled wide, showing all her fascinating Elite-style crooked teeth. “Don’t see why not.”

“That’s not good enough, Jenny. Oh, sorry—Ginny. Okay, okay, I’ve got it now. Ginny, Ginny, Ginny.” Poppy paused as
if waiting for approval. “When Svank says he wants something, he’d better get it or else. D’you follow me?” She laughed nervously.
“He’s used to getting what he wants, one, two, three.”

Like somebody else I know, thought Ginny.

For the first time since her arrival Poppy looked at her directly. “Why aren’t you a big success on your own, Ginny? Why d’you
need to work for anyone? Your clothes are adorable.”

The sweet innocent thing. This was the opening she’d been waiting for. Ginny plunged in with the story of her life, only slightly
embroidered and not embroidered at all when it came to the urgent necessity of being seen out and about at all the places
she read Poppy regularly attended.

“We can soon fix that,” Poppy said, with another click of the compact. “The social whirl!” She sniffed. “That’s no big deal.”
Her words came through clenched teeth as if she really meant it. “Svank likes parading me around like some kind of clotheshorse,
but then it’s nothing but ‘Why didn’t you do that?’ ‘Why didn’t you wear that?’ Believe me, I’d sooner be down in the Village
hanging out… the social whirl, believe me, Jen—Ginny, it can be one big bore.” As if to convince her, Poppy yawned, showing
straight, perfectly white teeth. “No big deal,” she repeated.

“Maybe not for you, but it’s one route to
Women’s Wear Daily
for me, for my clothes to be noticed, to be talked about, to get the backers I need to start up—”

“I told you, no problem, you can come along with me, and Svank will help. But you’ve got to help me, too. Can you get me on
that fucking list or not?”

“Not just like that. Poppy, you’ve got to know threats from your Mr. Svank aren’t going to get you anywhere either. Why he
wants you on the list beats me. I’m not sure that it matters much anymore, but that’s beside the point.” Ginny warmed up.
“You’re gorgeous…” On hearing that, Poppy sat up tall and beamed as if she’d just become Miss America. ”… but your dress
sense is lousy.” Poppy beamed on. Ginny swallowed hard. It had to come out. “You look too… too…”

She didn’t have the heart to say it, but Poppy said it for
her. “Flashy, loud. I know. Svank tells me so all the time, but that’s where you come in. Your clothes are sexy without being
… oh, I don’t know.”

By the time the fettuccine with truffles arrived, Ginny and Poppy had started on a bottle of white wine sent with Sirio’s
compliments, “Made from grapes grown near my family home in Florence.”

As the wine went down, Poppy grew softer, confiding, “Svank wants me in
Vogue
because—don’t tell anyone—he’s buying Bloomingdale’s or Bergdorf, I can’t remember which, but it’s one of those stores. I
mean one of those stores belongs to the big, big group he’s buying. So he wants me in every fucking fashion book as a fashion
leader. Sorry, Jen—Ginny—but he scares me sometimes. If you can help, you’ll never have to worry about a job again.”

“Let’s start right now.”

Poppy squealed with delight when Ginny showed her the tape measure in her purse. By the time they left Le Cirque, nearer to
three than the two Ginny had intended to be back on Seventh Avenue, she had taken Poppy’s vital statistics in the ladies’
room and her despair had diminished considerably.

She had a commission from Poppy to make her a dress—and not just any dress. It was for a very big night on her calendar, when
Svank was to be honored at a dinner at the Waldorf-Astoria honoring leading citizens of New York.

Poppy had rummaged through her purse, looking for her date book, but it wasn’t there. Instead, she found her checkbook and
insisted on giving Ginny a check for five hundred dollars, “to get you started.”

“Whatever happens about that ol’ list, I promise I’ll get you invited to the dinner,” Poppy slurred with affection. “We’ll
walk in together and I’ll tell the world you’re my designer, ‘cos by then you will be… and all those ol’ retailers will drool
and get their order books out.”

One of Poppy’s assistants called Ginny the next day with the date of the dinner, three weeks away. Thank God she had
the assignment, because it was nothing but gloom and doom at Gosman’s.

After that first Monday Everard hardly came into the office. There really wasn’t much need. Ginny was mortified to see how
quickly things started to collapse once the news got out.

She threw herself into designing the dress of all dresses for Poppy, usually the kind of challenge she thrived on, but so
much was at stake, she kept changing her mind. On the one hand it had to be simple, to play down Poppy’s top infrastructure,
while emphasizing the leggy lengthiness of her torso. On the other hand, it had to be spectacular.

Alex, who knew all about it, didn’t help, forever interfering, either on the phone or bursting in to see how she was getting
on.

She was having dinner in Chinatown with Esme and Ted (they were now officially engaged) when the idea struck. She would design
a Chinese red silk tuxedo for Poppy to wear on Svank’s big night, a tailored, skintight to the body, high-necked Mao jacket,
with skintight to the leg trousers, slit thigh-high at the sides.

At night she worked on the design, not giving a thought to what she would wear herself on the big night. During the day she
went on job interviews, a few arranged by Gosman or Lee. There was nothing out there that she wanted, no design assistants
needed, no creative “holes” gaping in the structures of any of the designers she admired.

She wasn’t taking her out-of-work situation seriously—yet—because in her mind it was already day one after the big Waldorf
night, with backing from Svank signed on the dotted line.

If she worried about anything it was having the time to look for premises, and, studying her address book, trying to decide
whom out of all the talented people she now knew, she would try to hire once her name was on the door.

“Can I speak to Miss Gan, please?”

“Sorry, she’s not available. Can I take a message?”

“Is this her answering service?”

“Yes, can I have your name and number, miss?”

“Ginny Walker. Please tell Ms. Gan to call me at 808-3592. I need her for a fitting for her… her dress. It’s urgent.”

“Can I speak to Ms. Gan, please?”

“She’s not available. Can I take a message?”

“Can I speak to Betty Porritt, her assistant?”

“She’s no longer working here.”

“Can I speak to Ms. Gan’s new assistant?”

“Hold on.”

Ginny had started biting her nails again. She chewed on two while waiting.

“Sorry, no one’s answering. Would you like to leave your name, a message?”

A week before the Waldorf dinner Ginny swallowed her pride and called Lee. “I’ve been trying to get hold of Poppy Gan for
a fitting. I’m desperate. Do you have any idea where she might be?” It was a long shot, but Lee was a voracious student of
trivia and squirreled away odd pieces of information.

“God, where did I hear she’s gone?”

“Gone?” Ginny wanted to throw up.

“No, wait a minute. I saw her on TV recently, on
Entertainment Tonight.
Hang on, yes, now I remember. She was in L.A. attending the premiere of that Demi Moore fiasco. She looked like a floozy.
Are you making her something, I hope?”

Ginny was blazing, but she controlled herself with, “Yes, I am, for a big dinner at the Waldorf next week, but the moron obviously
doesn’t understand I have to fit her. How on earth can I get in touch with her?”

To her fury Lee started to laugh. “Through Svank, my dear. I told you, he’s the man to know.”

“Thanks a lot.” She slammed the phone down.

Forty-eight hours before the big night, Ginny worked out she’d made at least a dozen phone calls to Poppy without one response.
How could Poppy be so thoughtless? How could she change from the confiding, warmhearted girl at Le
Cirque, full of promises—“You help me, I’ll help you”—to a remote stranger who didn’t even return her calls? Depressed and
nonplussed, Ginny stared at the red tuxedo suit hanging on her wardrobe door, waiting for its first fitting, let alone the
final one.