The Crasher (11 page)

“Listen to me for a minute?”

She brought out her tortoise, duckling, cheetah head to nod yes.

“After meeting Fräulein Schiffer I looked at the economics of what’s happening to lucky girls like her. I did some research
on the kind of money they’re making. I tell you it shocked the pants off me. I had no idea! These top girls are very young,
under or just over twenty, and they’re making millions. I told your mother she’s both right…”

Within his arm, he felt her stiffen, then relax again as he continued, ”… and wrong. I don’t agree at all that you should
ever step on a runway—or at least not until you’ve begun to earn hundreds of thousands of dollars and the top designers are
begging for you.”

She was raging again, but said nothing.

“She understands that you want to be a designer and she thinks one day you will be—and a successful one, too.”

His words startled her so much, she sat upright. Mother thought she could be a successful designer? Since when?

“I think so, too, but you’re going to need capital, lots of
capital. Ideas alone do not a successful designer make. Even a talent like Carolyne Roehm never made it, despite having so
many of her then-husband’s millions behind her.”

She was beginning to feel less betrayed and took a furtive sip of colada number two. It was twice as good as the first. She
wanted to purr or quack or make some kind of cheerful cheetah sound.

“Mother has a problem,” she said slowly. “She reads too many romantic novels. She thinks once I’m up there strutting my stuff,
some multi-zillionaire will come along and sweep me away to never-never land.”

Alex said earnestly, “It’s not on the runway you’ll meet Mr. Zillionaire—” He broke off as a stunning pale brunette in a dark
red, beautifully cut velvet suit glided across the floor of the still empty restaurant to a far dark corner. She was followed
by a heavyset, equally pale man.

Night people, Ginny thought with awe, glamorous, gorgeous people who are super-pale because they never see the sun and only
appear after dark.

As Alex continued to stare after them, Ginny said, “Wow! What a beauty. Who is she? She looks like a prima ballerina…”

Alex grinned. “Prima donna’s more like it. That, my dear, is Dolores Relato Peet, out of money, but not out of luck.”

Ginny stared enviously at the couple, now engrossed in each other. “What d’you mean?”

“She was about to be sued earlier this year for not paying her bills, said she was going to declare bankruptcy, but then Quentin
Peet’s son came to the rescue…”

“The
Quentin Peet?”

“One and the same. I heard somewhere Peet senior took a very dim view of his son making an honest woman of the divine Dolores.
I’m not surprised, seeing what’s going on over there…”

“You mean that’s not Mr. Peet’s son she’s with?”

“No, my dear, it’s not. Now look at me.” Alex tilted her chin in his direction. “I repeat, you don’t belong on the run-way.
As I’ve pointed out to Aunt V., to your mother, it’s as a model, like Schiffer, in magazines, the top magazines, that you
belong. Your mother’s right, you do have model potential, taller than average, a great bod—”

Ginny wasn’t mollified. “I’m an ectomorph as opposed to a rounded endomorph. For months mother’s been watching every forkful
of food I put in my mouth…”

“Good for her.” Alex laughed. “To go on, you have natural animal grace and…” This time when he chucked her under the chin
she didn’t object, “an adorable pointy chin.”

She loved the way he was describing her, but where was it leading? He probably thought she was still angry when she didn’t
answer. It wouldn’t hurt.

“Seriously, Gin, you may have the kind of looks that can put you up there with the big money-making girls. You may be able
to make the kind of money you’ll need to set up shop on Seventh Avenue. Then, with your business degree, you can cut it like
it’s never been cut before.”

Was it the piña coladas? Dollar signs were dancing before her eyes and she could see a shining white salon with one huge sunflower
decorating the reception area of Virginia Walker Fashion, Inc., or should it be Ginny Walker Fashion? V.W. wasn’t bad either,
except for its Virginia Woolf connotation, which to her related to the kind of floaty, flimsy, greenery, yellowy clothes she
loathed.

“We won’t know whether you have it or not until you sit before a professional camera, so first we have to find you a photographer,
because so far a photographer hasn’t found you. We have to get you a contact sheet to take to the top model agencies…”

It all sounded so easy, but somewhere behind the colada mist was still a modicum of common sense.

“I haven’t the time,” she moaned. “For these last exams I have to study harder than ever and still manage to get to FIT and
Bloomingdale’s…”

“Forget FIT and Bloomingdale’s,” Alex snapped. “You don’t need FIT now, and perhaps, with your kind of creativity,
you never will. You hire people to do that kind of dog’s work.”

What did he know?

Alex stood up. The discussion was over. For a second he hesitated, looking again in the direction of the corner where Quentin
Peet’s daughter-in-law was nuzzling the ear of somebody who apparently wasn’t her husband.

Ginny stood waiting, hoping Alex would go over, so she could follow, be introduced and get a closer look at the woman’s slinky
suit.

No, he wasn’t going. Alex took her elbow and guided her out into the vestibule, where still no one was manning the desk. Nobody
came running after them with a bill, either.

“I want you to start experimenting with looks, hair, makeup, this weekend and I’ll look into photographers.” Alex appraised
her. “How tall are you? Five eight, nine?”

“I’m not”—hiccup—“sure. About five eight, I think.”

“I’d say you’re a tad more, but in any case get into the habit of wearing three-inch heels or higher. In fact, that’s what
I’ll buy you for being such a good girl. We’ll go shopping on Saturday.”

Goodbye Bloomingdale’s. Esme’s sweet face came to mind. It was quickly blotted out by Claudia Schiffer’s.

As they climbed the staircase to the real world, Alex went on, “I want you to burn every pair of sneakers you own…” He heard
her gasp and turned around to give her his most wicked smile. “That is, until you’re regularly on the cover of
Vogue.
Then you can wear them to a ball for all I care. Then, but only then, like Schiffer, you can wear what you like.”

“Ginny, it’s for you.”

This was embarrassing. She had only been in this lovely woman’s unlovely apartment for about forty-five minutes. Her suitcase
was not yet unpacked, her sewing machine was still cluttering up the tiny hall, and already she was monopolizing the telephone.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Ginny, it’s me, Es…
crackle
…
crackle
… How are you?”

“Who? Sony, the line is terrible.”

“Esme…
crackle
…
crackle
… Jee.”

Ginny didn’t want to say she couldn’t hear her because then she would ring again. “I’ll call you back.” She longed to hang
up and go down to the street, where she knew there was a pay phone.

“I’m on a cellular…
crackle.”
The line went dead.

Esme had turned out to be a wonderful friend, but, Ginny had to admit, their relationship was now clouded by jealousy. Hers.
Esme wasn’t speaking to her family anymore. Rather, they were not speaking to her, because she’d escaped from Chinatown, literally
out of her bedroom window, to move in
with Ted something, a guy in real estate, loaded with money and, according to Esme, incredibly attractive.

Her family wouldn’t have cared about her running away “to live in sin” if Ted had been Chinese, Esme had told Ginny, but he
was Caucasian, and, worse, Jewish. They told her that unless she gave him up, they would consider they no longer had a daughter.
It didn’t seem to faze her. Although she wasn’t sure she really loved Ted, apparently they had this extraordinary sexual thing,
which had completely taken over her life.

Ginny hadn’t met Ted yet, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to, unless he had a best friend or a brother. She tried not to think
about it, but every so often she asked herself why Esme and not me?

It took an hour for Esme to call back. By then Ginny’s mother’s old friend, Sophie Formere, aka “the salt-of-the-earth,” had
insisted on helping her carry her precious machine into the box of a second bedroom, one day to become famous, Alex predicted,
as the “first Manhattan home of the celebrated model Ginny Walker.” She had also unpacked her suitcase, which didn’t take
long because she didn’t believe in accumulating clothes.

Instead, as an undiscovered (to date) fashion designer, she preferred to accumulate interesting fabrics, and her suitcase
was full of bits and pieces. As her portfolio of designs, also in the suitcase, clearly showed, if the fabric “said something,”
however small the piece, there was always something she could use it for. She also collected assorted things other people
might not view as accessories. Safety pins, for instance, which she was working with right now on an asymmetrical dinner dress.

Ginny went into a slight decline when the phone rang again at eight-forty. It was, of course, Esme, this time in a phone booth
on the way to a party.

Brought up in a home that considered any calls after seven-thirty in the evening to be nuisance calls or ones delivering very
bad news (or else!), Ginny knew she sounded sharp, although Mrs. Formere was still sweetness itself when she handed her the
receiver.

“I’ve only just moved in. How did you know where to find me so soon? I was going to call you this week.”

“I called your number in Queens, which, ‘at the customer’s request’”—Esme tried to imitate the operator’s voice, without success—“redirected
all calls to a 301 number. I spoke to your father, who told me where you were.”

“What did he say?’

“That the Walker School of Advanced Learning is now based in Washington, D.C., so, as your modeling career is about to begin,
your mother arranged for you to stay with an old friend, who’s acting as chaperone.”

Chaperone! She could die! Only Esme, bless her, could utter the word in this day and age without sneering or laughing her
head off.

Alas, it was true. Her parents had just moved to Maryland, not D.C. (her father was still incapable of telling the truth about
his real location), and Sophie Formere, God help her, was supposed to be her chaperone, as well as giving her a free roof
over her head until she started to earn all the big bucks she kept hearing about.

It had taken months of on-and-off warfare, but her mother had finally caved in, believing, she told Ginny, that this time
the Walker School was joining forces with another “learn-by-mail” outfit in Chevy Chase that promised long-term stability.
Leaving Ginny behind had seemed impossible, until Sophie Formere’s offer of guardianship allowed the umbilical cord to be
cut.

“Hello? Are you still there?”

“Yes.” Ginny lowered her voice. “It’s a bit embarrassing, Esme. I’m staying with this friend of my mother’s. I’ve only been
here a couple of hours and already you’ve called twice. She’s going to think I’m a phone hog.”

Esme didn’t get the hint. “I’ll talk fast. I think I’ve found a photographer for you, someone my family knows really well.
Ted and I bumped into him at a party over the weekend. He used to do paparazzi stuff, but now he’s working tegularly for magazines
and big-time ad campaigns. He’s just been asked
to do a job for
Glamour
… they’re looking for someone with a different look. I showed him that picture I took of you when you left Bloomie’s and
he—”

“What kind of look?” She could see herself in Mrs. Formere’s hall mirror. Her hair looked tatty, her skin not at its best,
her delightful pointy chin down, as opposed to up for optimism.

“Well…” Esme was a tactful girl. Ginny knew she probably wasn’t going to tell her what
Glamour
was really looking for. They liked doing those “before” and “after” stories. Tonight, she was definitely in the “before”
category.

“It’s hard to describe over the phone. I said you’d call him and make an appointment. His name is Oz Tabori. He’s Rumanian
and he’s definitely about to make it really big.” Esme gave her his number and Ginny, relieved to get off the phone and move
away from her reflection, went into the kitchen to make some coffee for Mrs. F.

There was no doubt her mother had chosen well. Sophie For-mere was perfect for the chaperone role, a mother-hen type, who,
clucking around, must have asked her a dozen times in the space of an hour, “Are you sure you have everything?”

Ginny expressed her joy and appreciation a dozen times back, inwardly groaning. There was no need for Mrs. F. to know that,
in fact, she had nothing… at least nothing that she wanted. No man, no sex, no job, no real home.

Stop! No self-pity either, she told herself. If she hadn’t become a successful, money-earning model, let alone a super-model,
in six months, no matter what anyone said (especially Mr. Alex Rossiter) she was going to forget the whole idea and comb Seventh
Avenue for a job, any job, even sweeping up debris from the floor in a fashion house.

But if she had to stay with Sophie F. for six whole months, would she be able to resist cutting off the fringes she saw everywhere?
Mrs. F. surely had to have a fringe fetish. They were on everything: lamps, sofas, antimacassars (a pale lavender one in the
living room might make an interesting collar on a plain black dress). Her fingers were itching to get to the scissors.

It took ages to escape from talking about what the salt-of-
the-earth described as “the good old days,” way back when she worked as a fitter with Virginia in San Diego, days Ginny was
pretty sure her mother wouldn’t describe that way.

When Mrs. F. began to describe her present “very important” job, Ginny stood up.