The Crasher (29 page)

“I’m sure. Who are you expecting?”

“Oh, forget it.” Then casually, “On second thought, why don’t you give me the bracelet back on Friday. I’ll give you another
one for keeps, instead.”

He sounded jumpy, irritable, showing none of the charm so much in evidence at the Rainbow Room.

Ginny wasn’t surprised. If her cousin was now working for Svank, how could he be anything but jumpy and irritable, however
much Svank “cared” for his welfare?

What a joke that was. Alex was deluding himself if he believed that.

By Friday the YSL was transformed, from long to short, as “flapper” as she could make it. She took out the one credit card
she possessed, usually locked away out of temptation with the bracelet. To help show off what she still considered to be her
best asset, her long, shapely legs, she used it to buy a pair of Fogal hose, exorbitant at thirty dollars, but exactly the
right shade of pale plum to match her new fringes.

Alex was supposed to pick her up at six to take her to the party given by an enormously rich Venezuelan Madame de Perez de
something at 834 Fifth Avenue, according to him one of the best addresses in New York.

“It’s a fancy holiday thank-you party for donors and would-be donors to a new room or wing at the Metropolitan Museum,” he
told her. “This, believe me, will be helpful to you, but you must let me handle it. If I say something that surprises you,
don’t, for God’s sake, contradict me, and if I ask you to do something, do it. It’s for your sake. Trust me.”

She’d heard it all before, but as usual she said, “Of course, I won’t. Of course, I will.”

At six Alex hadn’t arrived, but at five past he phoned to say he’d meet her in the lobby of 834 in thirty minutes. “Don’t
forget the bracelet.”

“I won’t, but Alex, don’t be late. Don’t let me down. You’ve told me we’re expected, we’re invited. It’s such a relief not
to be crashing… there’s no way I dare crash this…,” she wailed.

“Don’t worry, pigeon.”

And he was there, urbane in a dark gray suit and darker gray silk tie, giving her a quick hug as he slipped the bracelet into
his pocket. He looked so distinguished, she was proud to be by his side as they walked into the most magnificent, sumptuous
apartment she’d ever seen. Svank should take a look at this, Ginny thought. His apartment cried “money” loud and clear. This,
softly lit, richly draped, gloriously furnished, clearly stated “taste.”

For once Alex hadn’t exaggerated. He was expected and so was she.

She was so full of pride, there was a lump in her throat, as he began to introduce her to some of the elegant people, the
men sipping champagne, the women Perrier water. What a relief it was not to have to look over her shoulder, to move about
without fear of being accused as an interloper.

As they mingled with the crowd, Alex relaxed her further with a typical running commentary. “See the aging hippie with the
terrible wig—he’s the king of duty-free, worth zillions. The little wan blonde isn’t in the poorhouse either—she just tucked
away another few million, after being widowed, poor thing, for the fourth time. Over there, the horsey one with the chin?
She likes girls, little girls…” He appeared to know plenty about the apartment, too, pointing out two Rembrandts, several
Francesco Guardis and some Old Masters Ginny had never heard of.

“It’s like being in a museum.”

“It is a museum. See that cabinet?”

Ginny nodded. How could anyone miss it. It was immense.

“It’s one of a pair—cost about ten or twelve million—by Boulle. The other’s in Versailles.” He looked around. “I’d like to
show you the dining room—in fact, I’d like to see it myself. I’m told the table’s eight feet wide and once belonged to James
II.”

A wave of love for Alex flooded over her as he murmured, “Well, not now. Perhaps later. Smile, Ginny. Here comes the lady
of the manor, the hostess.”

A tall, reed-thin woman with a helmet of gleaming jet hair was approaching. From one quick glance Ginny decided she’d had
one too many face-lifts, but it was easy not to dwell on her face. Just below the ruffled collar of her black grosgrain dress,
she was wearing the largest, most spectacular dark blue sapphire and diamond brooch Ginny had ever seen, while on her ears
were huge sapphire and diamond earrings to match.

“Alex Rossiter, I’m so glad you left your beloved Scotland to be here again. Of course, I keep up with your travels.” She
gave a throaty little laugh. “From my English cousins, who love you as you know.”

There was a faint, charming accent. Was it Venezuelan? Who cared! What she was saying was much more interesting. Beloved Scotland.
English cousins. Would she ever be able to fathom her exciting cousin? Ginny looked at him, not bothering to conceal her awe.

“Luisa, Madame Perez de Villeneva, I am indeed fortunate that my travel plans changed. Thank you so much for allowing me to
bring my cousin. We see each other so rarely and as you know I am devoted to her. Virginia is a talented dress designer, just
recently moved to New York.”

Ginny hoped she didn’t look startled at the sudden lengthening of her name. More important, she hoped her fringed dress was
making an impact, but she doubted it. All the women here, including horse face and wan face, looked as if they lived and died
in safe black couture.

Madame Luisa extended a pale white hand graced with yet another stunning gem. “Ah, yes,” she purred. “I am delighted to meet
you, Virginia. Your guardian has told me of your talent. I believe…” She flashed an alarming smile at Alex. “…I believe, am
I right, Alex, you would like me to show your ward my collection of Balenciaga gowns?”

Guardian? Ward? Balenciaga? Ginny didn’t know where to look, but she didn’t need to look anywhere. Alex had taken over.

“Luisa, that would be so very kind. One day when you have the time, I am sure Virginia…”

“No, no, no,” Madame P. de V. interrupted. “Tonight, later, after the speeches. If we don’t do it tonight, who knows when
I will have the time. That is the reason you were kind enough to come, no?”

Ginny wanted to giggle, seeing the way the impenetrable-looking woman softened as Alex put a caressing hand on her skinny
arm.

Ginny smiled warmly. “Thank you very much. You are too kind.”

When she moved on to greet other guests, Ginny couldn’t stop laughing. “Alex, what on earth…”

“Trust me, remember!” He winked. “I’ll explain later. Oh, Alejo, how good to see you. Please meet my niece, I am sorry, I
mean my cousin, Virginia Walker…” and so the evening went on, with Ginny feeling more and more like a cosseted ward in the
protective care of a powerful guardian, loving every moment of it, not wanting it ever to end.

And the Balenciagas were incredible. Madame de Perez de whatever insisted on Alex coming to see them, too, but Ginny was too
overwhelmed to be aware at first that he wasn’t spending much time in the staggering mirrored dressing room, where with a
slight touch the walls opened to reveal row after row of extraordinary clothes, all color-and designer-coordinated.

“Here are the Balenciagas. Ah, Cristóbal, how missed you are! There will never be anyone like him again…”

Ginny ventured, “What about his pupil, Yves Saint Laurent?” But her hostess was gone, back into her palace of a bedroom where,
from time to time, Ginny could hear Alex’s voice boom, followed by Luisa’s throaty laugh.

She forgot about time as she examined the great Spanish designer’s work, so much so she jumped in alarm when Luisa put a hand
on her shoulder and said, “My dear, your cousin is so sorry. He received a phone call. He didn’t want to disturb your obvious
enjoyment, but he suddenly had to leave. He is so thoughtful, he has ordered a car for you to take you home. He is really
so sorry. He is going to call you tomorrow.”

The Venezuelan lady could hardly know how used she was to Alex’s erratic behavior. She was a big girl. She could find her
own way home.

From Luisa’s slight look of embarrassment Ginny was sure she was going to meet Alex later and why not? Alex was into jewelry
and art; no wonder this kind of richly bejeweled dragon lady appealed to him.

Although Ginny knew there was little chance any of the women at 834 could become her customers, Alex had done wonders for
her morale bringing her here. It was eight-fifteen, but there was still a big crowd in the drawing room. She stood alone,
savoring one more time the atmosphere of great wealth, taste, and beauty.

Someone tugged one of her fringes. She turned around with her most polite smile and froze. It was Johnny Peet.

“I have to hand it to you. This was a tough one to crash…”

“How dare you.” Her voice shook. How could she have thought he had an ounce of sympathy or sensitivity?

“Come on. I’m not out to spoil your fun. I’m just amazed how you…”

At that moment Luisa reappeared. “Oh, I see you know Mr. Peet. How nice. I just wanted you to know, Virginia, your car will
be here in fifteen minutes. I’m so glad you came. I do hope to see you again.” Despite her words, there was a tone in her
voice that declared the party was over.

It was like being given a present to see the surprised look on Peet’s face, but he quickly recovered as Luisa moved away.

“Shall I kneel now to beg your forgiveness, or will you allow me to apologize more profusely over a drink?”

Ginny didn’t know what to do. She was seething that Peet had automatically assumed she was uninvited, that she had no right
being in such lofty surroundings, that she was there because she’d dared to crash. She wanted to show him how much he’d insulted
her by telling him exactly what to do with his drink. On the other hand, perhaps this was the perfect opportunity to convince
him she’d been telling the truth at the Guggenheim, to convince him he didn’t have a story.

He was looking at her in a funny, quizzical way. A strange thought occurred to her. Perhaps he wasn’t so much at ease with
women after all? His wife, or rather ex-wife, had cheated on him for years. That must have been devastating. Perhaps he wasn’t
as confident as he appeared?

“Thank you,” she said primly. “A drink would be delightful.”

“And the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

He gave the doorman twenty dollars to send Ginny’s car away when it arrived, and in a chilly wind they walked a couple of
blocks fast down Fifth Avenue into the Hotel Pierre.

They settled at a corner table in the bar, a good pianist playing Andrew Lloyd Webber in a soft, romantic way.

“What would you like? A glass of champagne?”

Out of nowhere Ginny remembered seeing Dolores Peet for the first time at Doubles, almost next door to where they were now.
How impressed she’d been, sitting there with Alex, drinking piña coladas in the afternoon. What an innocent baby she’d been.

“A Perrier, please.” To show her sophistication, she added, “with bitters.”

She had to be in charge of the conversation if she was going to convince Johnny Peet there was nothing about her behavior
that could possibly interest his readers. How should she begin? Chitchat?

“Marvelous apartment, Luisa’s, isn’t it?”

Johnny laughed. “Marvelous. How well do you know her?”

“Oh, not well.” Ginny toyed with one of the fringes on her skirt. “She’s a good friend of my cousin Alex—Alex Rossiter.” She
hesitated, wondering whether to say “from Scotland,” but decided against it. “She’d heard about my business and wanted to
meet me.”

“Oh, yes, your business. Ginny Walker Fashion, right? Or is it Virginia Walker?”

He didn’t miss a thing. Ginny took a deep breath. “My name is actually Virginia. I was named after my mother. She’s
always called Virginia and sometimes Alex—er—our, er, my mother’s nephew—forgets and introduces me as Virginia, but I prefer
Ginny. What do you like to be called? John or Johnny?”

“Johnnyw’

“Of course, the Q. in your byline stands for Quentin, right?”

“Yep.”

“After your father…”

“Yep.”

“Of course, I knew that. My father’s one of his most fervent fans. He’s been writing to him for years, xeroxing his columns,
quoting from them in the lessons he sends out. He runs college correspondence courses.”

“Really.” This was pretty boring stuff. It was time to change the subject.

“So tell me about your business? What kind of fashion?”

“Oh, it’s small, but it’s developing nicely. Moderately priced, day, evening clothes, like that…”

“Like what you’re wearing? It’s… it’s different, but very pretty.”

“Thank you.” There was that slight pink blush again. “Well, no, I mean I designed this, of course. I always wear my own clothes,
but this would be too expensive to go in one of my lines…”

“How many lines d’you have? Or should I call them seasons?”

She was relaxing. “There’s an old saying in the rag trade that there are five seasons, fall, winter, spring, summer, and slack.”
She paused and he obliged her with a laugh. “Now there are more, resort, holiday, prespring, pre-fall because stores demand
a constant influx of new stuff. Of course, I can’t possibly cover all that…”

He could see she really loved her work and was beginning to unwind.

Until a second round of drinks arrived, they went on chatting pleasantly, she describing a business that didn’t exist, he
describing a close relationship with his celebrated father that didn’t exist.

As she talked, he studied her, an idea beginning to formulate. This strange wild card, Ginny Walker, had to view society from
a uniquely jaundiced vantage point, if, as he suspected, she was no novice at crashing. She must have plenty of stories to
tell, stories about behavior that could be useful when he went ahead with the book. He noted he was already thinking “when”
as opposed to “if.”

After the miserable no-win, tense lunch with his father, of course he’d decided to do it; he just hadn’t admitted it to himself
until that moment. He’d kick himself forever if he didn’t take a stab at it.

It was time to get down to business. “Now explain to me why on earth you wanted to crash that party the other evening?”