The Crasher (28 page)

“Welcome to the world of Ginny Walker Fashion. We are either away from our drawing board or on the telephone, but your call
is important to us. Please leave your name, date, time of call and a brief message if you wish and we will get back to you
as soon as possible. Wait for the—”

The beep went off before she was able to get the word out. With all that blather no wonder her voice sounded so breathless
and who, Johnny wondered idly, made up the “we” of Ginny Walker Fashion?

“This is John Peet returning your calls. I would like to talk to you. Leave word when you’re actually going to be present,
creating at your drawing board, so we don’t play endless telephone tag.”

When Ginny received the message around six, she panicked.

“I would like to talk to you” could only mean one thing; Peet intended to write about her in
Next!
He wanted to interrogate her about her crashing habits.

Why on earth had she called him and left her number after running away from the museum so successfully? Because she might
be able to appeal to a sympathetic side she sensed John Q. Peet possessed.

Now she castigated herself for her stupidity. How did she know he had an iota of sympathy in him? So many successful people
appeared sympathetic, even when they were aiming straight at the jugular.

She’d just spent seven straight hours on her feet, working like a maniac in the December rush at Bloomingdale’s. Climbing
the stairs to the loft, she’d more or less decided she didn’t have the energy to go to a holiday party after a movie screening
that night, even though, for once, Poppy had actually invited her.

Peet’s message changed all that. There was no way she could stay home, biting her nails from anxiety, wondering what to do
next.

Would Peet be at the party? What of it? This time she had a genuine invitation. Poppy had promised “a gala night, to celebrate
the holidays at the Rainbow Room.” There was a string attached, but Ginny hadn’t cared, in fact had welcomed it. Poppy wanted
Ginny to give her a fitting for a new dress there, on the spot

It wasn’t so unrealistic. Poppy had loved the concept—basically being wrapped as tight as a mummy in high-twist heavy georgette;
had ordered the dress, and then played her usual hide-and-seek game when it came to being fitted.

Now Poppy wanted the dress pronto, in time for Christmas, and Ginny had figured she could transport the georgette to the
dinner in a matching georgette bag and fit Poppy quickly in the nearest ladies’ room.

Ginny listened to Peet’s message again. He had a great voice, with the suggestion of a laugh buried in it. Perhaps she was
right after all and he really was a sympathetic soul. Perhaps he didn’t only view her as column fodder? Perhaps he fancied
her? Perhaps he still liked brunettes.

She laughed at her own absurdity. After being married to Ms. Gorgeous, who was he going out with now? Somehow from somewhere
she knew John Q. Peet hadn’t taken long to recover from his “amicable divorce,” that despite what Tony had told her about
Johnny having “sworn off women for good,” he was already earning a reputation as a “ladies’ man.”

If only Alex were back from Europe, he would tell her how to deal with the Peet situation.

She went over to the tall, narrow, art deco wardrobe she’d found for practically nothing in the flea market, where she now
kept her “best” clothes. What should she wear to the Rainbow Room to cheer herself up? She sighed. Everything hanging there
she knew too well. The red tuxedo top with sarong skirt, the silver suit with the birdcage jacket with inside-out seams, the
lilac chiffon and the two Gosmans in expensive fabric that she’d renovated, the back-to-front “Dior” pumpkin-colored sateen
(once described, she’d been told, in Peet’s column as “the two-faced dress”) and the “Yves St. Laurent” she’d covered in paillettes.

For all the clippings in her portfolio, not one of them had brought her any success. Each stood for an unhappy memory, a disappointment,
a letdown, the story of her life so far. She longed to burn the lot, but it wasn’t so easy to replenish her wardrobe now that
she was no longer at Gosman’s. There, forgotten, leftover fabric and unsuccessful numbers gathering dust in drawers and cupboards
had turned 554 Seventh Avenue into her personal Aladdin’s Cave.

She decided sometime during the week ahead, in time for Christmas, she would turn the sparkling “YSL” into a shorter
flapper-style dress, replacing the paillettes with fringes she’d found in her own dusty cupboard.

She only wished she’d thought of it before, because what could be more suitable for movie-going than uncrushable fringes?
What was the movie anyway? Perhaps she should go there first? Women didn’t wear long dresses to watch a movie, did they? Was
the dinner dance listed as black-tie? She rushed to find Poppy’s agenda. The movie wasn’t mentioned, only the post-screening
party, which didn’t mention black tie or any tie.

Holiday party or not, she decided to dress down, not up, in something that didn’t crush. She went to her everyday closet and
took out her oilskin bodysuit just back from the cleaner’s. Uncrushed and fresh, she’d go straight to the party.

She didn’t like the anxious look she saw in the mirror. She practiced her Eliza Doolittle expressions to relax her facial
features. “How n-ice of you to l-et me c-ome…” She added a few strokes of kohl around the eyes, vivid coral lipstick, and
Alex’s “entailed” gold petal bracelet around her wrist, which did the best job of cheering her up.

Her heart beat fast as she approached Rockefeller Center. To think, only a few nights ago she’d been sitting and chatting
so confidently with members of the family. In one way she hoped Peet might be at the Rainbow Room, so she could show him she
knew a few people, too.

Her ears popped as the elevator rushed her and a dozen others up to the sixty-fifth floor. Emerging was like leaving reality
behind, each step down the glass hallway taking her farther into fantasy. Through floor-to-ceiling windows New York City’s
lit-up skyline sparkled like a trillion diamonds.

In the vestibule outside the Rainbow Room was a long table manned by a row of perfectly coiffed and made-up young women. Ginny
recognized one of them from Peggy Siegal’s celebrated public relations company, specializing in movie and movie star events.
She couldn’t remember her name, but that was all right; the young woman couldn’t remember hers, either.

“Hi,” they said together.

Ginny smiled and waved, about to move on.

“Don’t you want your table number?”

“I may not be listed. I’m with Poppy Gan.”

“Oh, she’s already here with Mr. Svank… she looks bootiful.”

“I’m sure.” Ginny’s smile was pasted on tight. Did “bootiful” mean Lana Turner white satin? Surely not tonight. Even Poppy
wouldn’t trot that old number out to wear to the movies. Ginny clutched the georgette bag more closely to remind herself of
the main reason she was there.

“Table sixteen, Ms…”

“Ginny Walker,” she breathed over her shoulder.

The Rainbow Room might have been designed for grand entrances. Ginny was ready, preparing herself to stand still for a few
moments on the top step, head held high, before slowly, gracefully descending the sweeping stairs.

Out of nowhere came a sudden fear that Johnny Peet was staring at her, about to materialize out of the crowd with an “I-know-what-you’re-up-to”
look on his face. Because of this, instead of posing on the wide step for those few important seconds, Ginny rushed down as
if her train was pulling out of the station.

“Where’s table sixteen?” she asked another well-put-together young woman holding a floor plan. As she began to scan it, Ginny
glanced at the ballroom floor. It was slowly revolving.

In shock, so sudden it was almost physically painful, she let out a little cry. Poppy was dancing cheek to cheek with… Ginny
couldn’t believe it… with Alex, her cousin.

At that second Alex looked right at her. He winked, then whirled Poppy around as if to demonstrate his ballroom dancing technique.

The girl with the floor plan was staring at her. “Are you all right?”

Ginny nodded. She was far from all right. Across the room, presumably at table sixteen, she could see the loathsome
Svank, as expressionless as ever, his eyes never moving away from the laughing, dancing pair.

“Sixteen is over there…”

“Thank you.” Ginny didn’t follow the pointing hand. She felt so shaken she didn’t know whether she was crawling or walking
toward a huge panoramic window, which revealed in dazzling detail Manhattan’s ruler-straight main thoroughfares. Ginny saw
nothing. She sank down in a chair, thinking for the first time how incongruous the georgette bag looked with her oilskin bodysuit.

First, she had to admit it, she’d felt jealous, seeing Alex dancing so ecstatically with, she again had to admit, an extremely
“bootiful” Poppy in a tight-fitting gray jersey sheath. Now, however, came a stronger emotion. Fear. Did Alex know what he
was doing, dancing so intimately with Svank’s woman? Was he aware Svank was watching every step they took? Didn’t Alex remember
the story she’d told him about the birthday dress?

Ginny shivered. She had no doubt that Svank would stop at nothing to blot Alex out of Poppy’s life. Nothing.

“Ginny, darling,” said Alex, “there you are in your slinky, oh-so-svelte cheetah suit. Well, fancy seeing you here…” She tried
to pull away from him, as Alex led her onto the floor, but it was impossible without making a scene.

Congratulations,” he whispered. “Poppy is looking like a stunning nun. It won’t be long before she’s on the BDL.”

“I didn’t have anything to do with it,” Ginny snapped angrily. “Why didn’t you tell me you were back? Why didn’t you tell
me you were coming here with Poppy?”

“Ginny, m’dear, I told you before, I’m working occasionally for Svank. I am under the Big Man’s command. I didn’t know I was
coming myself until yesterday. I arrived last night. Don’t look so mad, Ginny, especially if you’re… eh… crashing. You look
as if you’d like to murder me. Don’t call attention to yourself that way.”

Again she tried to pull away, but Alex held her tightly to him.

“Don’t talk to me like that,” she hissed.

He ignored her anger, saying brightly, “This has to be fate. Remember I told you about the parties that never get in the papers?
The ones held in private, very private homes? Well, I’d like to take you to a very important one on Friday, full of the fashionable
people, potential backers, Ginny, m’dear. Are you free?”

Over Alex’s shoulder Ginny could see Svank still looking at him. It wasn’t a pleasant look. “Alex, do be careful…”

“What?” He swirled her around so he was facing table sixteen. “Oh, Mr. Svank—is that what you mean? Relax. He never shows
what he’s thinking, poor guy. He can be thinking the most wholesome thoughts and he still looks like a thug. I promise you,
he’s very interested in my welfare. He’s just checking that I’m in good company.”

“I didn’t like the way he was staring at you when you were dancing cheek to cheek with Poppy.”

Alex laughed. “So you noticed! You couldn’t be more wrong, my Gin. Svank doesn’t like to dance and Ms. Gan does. I was taking
her pout away and doing him a favor. Now be a good girl and come and say hello to your benefactors. I see you’re wearing my
bracelet. Good. I want you to show it off.”

Alex had gone too far. She pinched him hard.

“What was that for?” he asked.

“You know. Benefactors, my foot. They’ve done nothing for me.”

“Patience, patience. Not yet they haven’t, but they will.”

The Rainbow Room wasn’t a complete waste of time. Not at all. With giggles and sly looks at Svank, Poppy excused herself and
followed Ginny to the ladies’ room where, much to the amazement of the attendant, she slithered out of her gray jersey, showing
she didn’t believe in underwear, and Ginny began to wrap her in the georgette. The fitting took twenty minutes from start
to finish.

Although Poppy pleaded with her to stay, Ginny knew she couldn’t enjoy herself, let alone eat any of the post-movie
supper, with Svank continuing to ignore her existence (although he’d stared steadily at the bracelet). After a quick glass
of champagne, she made a fast exit.

The next day a messenger arrived at the loft with a check for five hundred dollars “on account” from Poppy. It came just in
time to help pay the rent.

Her mother had called, leaving a message, asking if she’d come down to Florida for Christmas. It didn’t make much sense. Not
this year. It was only a one-day holiday to her and she already had a couple of invitations, including one from Esme she intended
to accept for Christmas dinner. At a time when a lot of people wanted time off she could earn more money staying in town;
and in the new year, with store sales, income tax forms to be prepared, and a plea from Lee that some big shoots were coming
up, she might even be able to save something.

“I’d sooner come in February, when the weather’s really miserable,” she’d said. The truth was she didn’t want to go then either,
although she longed to see her mother. She felt nervous about leaving the city, so full of opportunities. This is where my
future lies, she thought. By February, who knew what might happen.

She was working at Bloomingdale’s every day that week, and reworking the YSL at night. She decided to leave a message for
Johnny Peet at his office around seven-thirty
A.M.
, when she was sure he wouldn’t be there, to say that she was out of town but would definitely “be back at my drawing board”
by the weekend. She just had to pray he wouldn’t write anything in
Next!
without first talking to her.

Alex called her every evening, asking more or less the same questions.

“Has anyone called for me?”

“No, why?”

“Where are you keeping the gold bracelet?”

“Locked in my cupboard. Do you want it back?”

“No.” He paused. “But don’t wear it on Friday. Are you sure no one’s left me a message or a note at your place?”