The Crasher (25 page)

“I don’t suppose Mr. Svank is here yet, either, is he?”

As three or four people arrived behind Ginny, the girl, flustered, began, “I didn’t think he was able to…”

“Schlesinger, Paterson…” More names were being given as Ginny casually picked up a program and walked toward the cloakroom
with an “I’ll wait for her upstairs.”

She shed her coat and gave herself a quick once-over in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. She was wearing the Chinese red tuxedo
top made for Poppy, then reconstructed to wear herself at the Waldorf. Now it shimmied over a new, darker red sarong skirt
that she’d designed to be pinned together with a giant silver safety pin.

The name atop the invitation, Mrs. Theodore King—Nan, to her special coterie—was at the door of the upstairs drawing room.
She was more striking and even thinner in real life, Ginny decided, wearing, she was sure, a svelte black velvet number from
Valentino’s latest collection.

Nan King described herself as “born with a couture spoon in my mouth,” and no one appreciated fashion innovation more than
she; any designer worth their sketchpad knew that.

In a split second Ginny, hoping the celebrated doyenne of fashion would realize she was looking at a new talent’s work, decided
to call attention to herself by approaching very, very slowly. It was worth taking the risk of being accused of false entry.

Alas, one of Mrs. K.’s nearest and dearest was apparently right behind Ginny, because after the quickest, most perfunctory
smile of greeting, screams of “Daarrling” filled the air and Nan brushed her aside to move into an embrace. Disappointing,
but at least she was in without any problems.

Ginny scanned the room. Darkly paneled, heavily marbled, it was already filled with men in black tie and mostly rail-thin
women in long or short black. Like actors in a play they milled around, laughing, talking, smiling, sipping, gesticulating,
all to show the constantly flashing cameras what a wonderful time they were having.

Ginny took a spritzer from a passing waiter and moved to a table beside an archway, where, apparently engrossed in the program,
she positioned herself to show off her tuxedo jacket with its new skirt, a blaze of color in a sea of black. It didn’t take
long to catch the photographers’ attention, one of the evening’s objectives.

She was collecting a neat little portfolio of herself photographed in Ginny Walker designs, so far unidentified, but she wasn’t
discouraged. She had succeeded in her first ambition—to appear in
Women’s Wear Daily
and, even better, the glossy monthly
W
version—with a three-inch picture on Suzy’s page, carrying the flattering caption, “For once somebody young and slender enough
to wear her negligee to dinner.”

A few pictures of her standing next to Poppy had also appeared in the tabloids (alas, only once had Poppy been wearing one
of the two evening dresses she’d so far made for her), but her pride and joy was the last entry, a large shot by Bill Cunningham,
the brilliant
New York Times
fashion sleuth, who’d photographed her for a new trend page in Sunday’s paper.

“Chic leather after dark” was the headline, which was incredible, considering he’d snapped her unawares, crossing Madison
Avenue in the oldest piece of leather clothing she possessed, her ginger leather skirt, admittedly worn that night with a
new faux suede vest.

She tried to concentrate on the program. It was confusing: Following the reception, pre-dinner sonatas would be played, arranged
by Affiliate Artists, an organization that helped young musicians by introducing them to play in rich people’s homes. Post-dinner,
there was to be a concert given by—in case she was asked, Ginny mentally practiced pronouncing the name—the Bach-Gesellschaft,
“a group originally founded to celebrate the three-hundredth anniversary of Bach’s birth.”

Did these elegant people really care about a composer’s three-hundredth birthday? Ginny doubted it. She read on, getting more
confused.

“The concert will be recorded for public broadcasting, a cultural event made possible by the generosity of…” Ginny could hardly
believe what she was reading, none other than General Motors. What on earth did they have to do with Bach? It seemed they’d
paid for everything, all to help launch their latest $55,000 roadster, “on display, outside on Fifth Avenue, at the end of
the evening.”

From Poppy’s agenda, Ginny had chosen to crash this evening mainly because of Nan King’s chairmanship. Because of her clothes
sense, no socialite was photographed more, so it stood to reason Nan’s guest list would also be eminently fashionable; ergo,
she would be surrounded by women likely to be interested in Ginny Walker clothes.

She’d made a mistake, that was all there was to it. The people here had come to hear the music, see the new car and go home.
At least the photographers had noticed her, so it wasn’t a complete waste.

She looked around, hoping someone would smile at her or say “Hi” or “How are you.” It happened occasionally, because someone
thought they knew her, she reminded them of someone else, for which she supposed she had to thank the “anonymity” of her looks.

At the end of the room she saw the musicians enter. People were already rushing to grab what Ginny could see were far too
few seats.

She made eye contact with a bearded man. Had she met him with Oz? No, that beard had been strictly redwoods; this one was
Van Dyke. The bearded one came over and said, “Hi, how are you?”

“Hello, there. What a busy evening.”

“I hope so—that’s what we’ve been planning. Aren’t you…?”

“Ginny Walker.” The more authoritatively she gave her name, the better she felt about herself.

“Oh, yes, one of Nan’s fashion flock.” He had a clipped way of speaking. Ginny couldn’t be sure if he was mocking her or was
merely clipped.

“Peter Arveson.” He gave her his card. “Executive Vice President, Plomley Advertising.”

They strolled together to stand behind the rows of now-filled little gold chairs. She tried to think of something to say.
“Is General Motors one of your accounts?”

“No, I’m here as an extra man.” Was he kidding? No sign of a smile, no sign of a laugh.

Her brain plotted away. An advertising man could be helpful, surely? As Mrs. K. hadn’t exactly rolled over in admiration on
seeing her red tuxedo, meeting Arveson was better than nothing.

They stood together in attentive silence throughout the sonatas, but at the end, in the sudden rush for the buffet Ginny found
herself alone again.

That Poppy’s agenda had stated “buffet supper” had been another reason Ginny had chosen this event to crash. She could stay
for the duration of a “buffet supper,” something not easily accomplished at a seated dinner, although, as she’d learned at
the Waldorf, the more mammoth the event, the greater the likelihood of seats going unoccupied. At often a thousand dollars
a ticket Ginny didn’t understand it, but there was so much she still didn’t get about New York.

Now, she deliberated about joining the crush or going home. The empty state of her fridge made her mind up. She joined the
throng of beanpoles in black, wondering if any of them really did eat and if so, were they bulimic?”

Arveson was beside her again. “D’you want to join us?”

“I’d love to.”

She sat between him and a merchant banker named Tony.

“How well d’you know the hostess?” Tony asked.

“Not that well.”

“Well, then,
was bringt Sie denn hierher?
Are you a lover of all things Bach,
The Well-Tempered Clavier?”

“Alas, no, although I’m looking forward to…” Ginny
stopped. Not only had she forgotten how to pronounce the group’s name, she’d forgotten what it was. “The concert,” she finished
weakly.

Tony roared with laughter. Arveson pursed his lips.

“Tell the truth, why is such a sexy thing like you at such a heavyweight evening? Are you hoping to win the Allante?”

Though it was obvious that she didn’t know what the Allante was either, Ginny threw away caution. “No, I’m hoping to find
someone with enough style to invest in my business.”

“What kind of business?”

“I’m an important, undercapitalized fashion designer.”

Tony hooted with laughter again. “How much are you looking for?”

She was weighing up whether to say fifty or a hundred thousand when Nan King came by. Ginny was impressed that all the men
stood up. “Here, take my seat, Nan,” they all more or less said in different ways.

“No, no, no,” she replied, settling gracefully all the same into Tony’s chair.

“You’ve done it again, Nan!”

“How much have you raised this time?”

“Ezra only came because of you, naughty Nan…”

“Is that Valentino’s?” Ginny leaned forward, her question lost in a guffaw of laughter.

“When on earth is that buffet line going to get shorter?”

“Is that Joan Rivers over there?”

“The food’s going to run out, I know it.”

“I hear the Allante’s going to be raffled? But where are the tickets? Have you driven it yet?” (So that solved the Allante
mystery.)

“I’m sure that’s Joan Rivers.”

“Did you hear what she told Nancy Reagan? Johnny Peet ran the item last week. Whenever she thinks her house is dirty, she
calls the Beverly Hills police to report a robbery and they come right over to dust for fingerprints…”

Ginny joined in the general laughter, but most of the time she sat silently, aware after a time that nobody was paying
much attention to what anyone else was saying, because everyone talked at once.

Tony leaned over her chair and whispered, “Let’s get out of here, now, okay, fashion princess?”

She looked at her watch with its Swatch strap, Chinese red to match her jacket. It wasn’t even nine o’clock. The thought of
all that Bach ahead made the idea attractive, and who knew if Tony the banker might not be interested in the fashion business.
There was nothing doing with Arveson; since sitting down, he hadn’t even glanced in her direction.

Outside on the sidewalk, guarded by a New York cop, was the Allante. By the curb was another gleaming vehicle, a plum-colored
Mercedes with a plum-covered chauffeur at the wheel. “Climb aboard,” said Tony. Then, “We’ll do a few drop-ins, Frank. Head
toward K and P.”

He leaned back against burnished leather and yawned. “There are at least one hundred parties going on in this city right now,
each one, I guarantee, more lively than the General Motors bullshit we’ve just left behind. Okay, Mademoiselle Chanel, the
night’s about to take a turn for the better.”

To Ginny’s surprise, they first stopped at Barneys department store on Madison Avenue. “What’s going on?”

“I forget—some fashion celebration—supposed to be full of the really Beautiful People, no one over sweet sixteen.”

She held his arm as he swaggered into a sea of sweltering bodies. There was a huge poster just inside, a blowup of the cover
of the Italian men’s magazine,
L’Uomo Vogue,
but she never did find out what the party was all about, because no sooner had they made it through to the cosmetic counters
than Tony turned around and started to try to shove his way out again, muttering, “This is a no-go; place is full of no-shows.”

Hardly, but she got the gist of what he was trying to say. She wasn’t sorry. They didn’t look like beautiful people to her
either. It may have been an international fashion crowd, but they all looked as if they shopped at the Gap, rather than their
host’s establishment.

Tony slept on the way downtown. Ginny didn’t mind. She
was busy doing mental arithmetic in case the subject of capital came up. She didn’t want to ask too little—or too much. She
had to Be Prepared. Alex had always been right about that.

K and P turned out to be Kelley and Ping, the antithesis of the American Academy of Design, a beer and cold cuts kind of place.
It was sweltering, too, from too many bodies squeezed into too little space, Rastafarians, long-hair-to-the-waist male musicians,
male and female models, and on-the-way-up starlets.

“It’s for
Huh.
I put some money in. I like to play a wild card or two,” Tony murmured in her ear as they joined a group grooving in a corner.

“Huh?” There was surely only one way to say Huh? Out of the corner of her eye she saw Sandra Bullock and someone of indeterminate
sex who’d shaved his or her head.

“Yep… it’s a very cool new music magazine.”

By midnight they’d dropped into Nell’s, a party at an art gallery on Prince Street, and Barocco, which she loved because there
were a couple of real stars on the premises—Tim Robbins and Susan Sarandon (was she pregnant again?). More important, there
was food. She was consuming a kind of hot bean sprout patty with a glass of delicious white wine when she saw in the corner
Dolores, her lucky omen.

Ginny crossed her fingers. Perhaps it meant Tony was going to back her. If he’d backed
Huh,
why not Her?

“Oopla, there’s going to be a nasty little scene, I believe. Did you see who just arrived? Let’s get out of here before the
fur starts flying.”

So far she hadn’t seen Tony take a drink, but as he pulled her toward the door he downed a couple of glasses of champagne
in two swigs. “Hi, Johnny,” she heard him say as she went ahead into the street. “Your ex-missus is in there with Mr. Oilwell
himself.”

“Was that Johnny Peet?” she asked as she got in the car.

“None other. Good guy, Johnny. We knew each other at Princeton.”

“I wish I’d known. I’d love to meet him. My father’s crazy about his father. I wonder if I’d like his son…”

“You will never know, Mademoiselle Chanel.
Après le déluge, après
Dolores, he’s sworn off women for good.”

“A likely story.”

Because Tony hadn’t attempted to touch her, in or out of the car, she didn’t think twice when, arriving at the loft, he asked
to come up for a nightcap.

No sooner had she closed the door than he lunged, like a rapist, pushing her down on the floor and yanking away at her tuxedo
jacket. She screamed so loudly he sat back on his heels, looking mildly surprised for a few seconds. It was enough time to
unpin the safety pin in her sarong and stab him furiously in the arm.