The Crasher (36 page)

“You must bring Johnny to the wedding,” Esme cried, as the last crispy noodle was consumed with the last drop of wine.

Ginny knew she was blushing again. It was so typically sweet of Esme to ask. “I’d love to, but let’s see what happens.”

When the girls finally left, the clouds descended. If oaly her life were really as it had appeared to be during the afternoon
and early evening, full of innocent jokes, teasing, girl talk, preparing for the happiest day in a girl’s life, her best friend’s
life. If only—but instead she was swamped in this sinister fog with nothing to be optimistic about, with her own mother believing
she could be a fence, if not a thief.

Tears welled up. Esme had this rosy picture of Johnny and herself at the wedding; she would throw her bouquet to Ginny and
Johnny would suddenly realize she was the one for him.

But it wasn’t going to happen. Johnny had made it abundantly clear that he had no personal interest in her, that there was
“no reason” for her to meet his father, just as there was “no reason” for him to meet hers. She was his “partner,” his “observer,”
and a good one, as he’d been at pains to tell her following the ghastly Cocteau evening.

How she’d hated every moment of it, a stupid grin pasted on her face, putting up with a lambasting from the press agent at
the theater, who’d blamed her for Johnny’s nonappearance. Then barred from entering the Crystal Room, noting down every insult
and every incident, on agonizing tenterhooks until Mr.
Next!
magazine Peet deigned to arrive, when, one, two, three in sickeningly speedy fashion, she’d become so very persona grata,
waltzing in on his arm.

She hated herself, but she was aching for that arm right now. So much so that when the phone rang, she had no thought of her
poor mother who’d promised to call back, and picked it up expecting to hear Johnny’s voice. It wasn’t Johnny or her mother.
It was Lee Baker Davies.

“How are you, m’dear? I know it’s late, but I just saw a seductive little picture of you in the latest
Vogue.
At least, I think it was you—a back view, but I’d recognize that behind of yours anywhere, draped if I’m not mistaken in
that Indian material I gave you last year?”

Ginny had cut down on her magazine subscriptions and, except when she remembered to ask Esmé, rarely saw
Vogue
nowadays. “What was the occasion?”

“I can’t remember exactly. Some fashionable gathering. D’you want to have dinner tomorrow night? I’ll bring the book with
me. It’s ages since I saw you, birdy.”

Ginny was about to say no. These days every time she left the loft—day or night, whether for a few minutes or a few hours—she
returned panic-stricken that somebody would be waiting for her there, either the police or Svank’s Hugo or Svank himself or…
she didn’t know who, but some threatening presence.

She probably should stay home to work on the wedding
dresses or finish Poppy’s, but she didn’t want Lee to think she didn’t want to see her. Perhaps the best thing was to make
dates again and go out regularly to try to overcome her fears.

If Johnny called with plans, it wouldn’t hurt for him to hear she was already busy.

“Why not?”

“Great, great. What d’you feel like, Italian or Chinese?”

She didn’t feel like eating ever again. How could she breathe, let alone eat, when her own mother thought she could be a jewel
thief? She was being stupid. “Italian?”

“Okeydokey. Toscana on Lex between Sixty-third and Sixty-fourth. Eight-thirty tomorrow night?”

“Eight-thirty, great.”

Lee had never seen her “tweeds” and it was the warmest outfit she had, so Ginny wore it again, beneath a coat with a fur collar
“on loan” from her mother.

“You still look a bit peaky,” Lee said. “Good, here’s the wine.” As the waiter poured out two generous glasses, she moved
closer to Ginny. “How’s it going?”

“Nowhere.” Ginny tried to laugh, without success. “I’m busy—with Esme’s wedding, the usual long-drawn-out commission from
Poppy, and a few other jobs.” She wasn’t about to tell Lee about her assignment from Johnny. She wasn’t about to tell anyone
about that.

“Poppy certainly looks a little more soignée in the pictures I’ve seen lately. I thought you had to be hanging in there.”
Ginny decided not to comment. By now she was well used to the way Lee used conversation as bait, hoping to land a fat piece
of gossip.

There was silence, then, “I may know of a job for you,” Lee said with a catlike grin. “I was just on the Coast for a few days
on an SOS job, styling a Max Factor campaign. Oh, yes, by the way, recommended by an old flame of yours. He asked me whatever
happened to—”

“Baby Jane.” Ginny looked around the pretty, brick-walled restaurant, not bothering to hide her uninterest.

“What? Oh, yeah.” Lee sailed on. “Oz, remember Oz? He was supposed to do the campaign, but he got sick, then Herb Ritts was
supposed to do it and he couldn’t and then…”

“Lee…”

“What?”

“Could you get to the job?”

“Oh, yeah, well, it’s all involved with this ad agency on the Coast. The stylist never turned up and Oz recommended me and
that’s how I met Becky Corey, who designed these terrific clothes for the campaign and-”

“Never heard of her,” Ginny said sourly. (And I certainly don’t care to, she added mentally.)

Lee spent the next twenty minutes explaining how much Becky Corey had reminded her of Ginny. Every so often she patted her
cheek, stroked her arm and even squeezed her knee once or twice. Ginny didn’t object; in fact, feeling particularly unloved
and starved for affection, she almost welcomed Lee’s demonstrations. Almost.

“You have much more talent; you’re much more inspired, but in many ways Becky’s story could be yours,” Lee said emphatically.
“I mean she missed three mortgage payments to keep her company alive; she went hungry; she tried everything, then word started
to get around and JC Penney went crazy over her sheaths, but said she had to install an on-line order system, which there
was no way she could afford. With no collateral, no track record, she couldn’t get a loan from her neighborhood bank. Boy,
did I think of you when she told me that…”

Ginny buried her nose in the large menu, but true to form Lee went right on. “She finally found a manufacturer in Burbank
willing to handle her first season of production on credit—all she had to pay in interest was her entire profit margin…

“Lee, I’m starving.” To her surprise Ginny found she actually was. “Can we order or is the end of this happy-ever-after story
nearly in sight? And what’s this got to do with my new job?”

“Wait a minute. Be a good girl.” Lee refilled her glass, although she hadn’t taken more than a few sips. “Becky then had to
resort to factoring—she sold twenty-five hundred pieces, but all her profit had to stay with the factoring company.”

Ginny began to tap her fork on the table. Was Baker Davies in love with this woman or something? Her stylist friend looked
more butch than ever, with a haircut which seen from both back and front defied gender identification. Lee went on talking.
“The last straw, a venture-capital investment fell through. Becky used all the cash within reach, from her husband’s income…”

Husband! Ginny longed to shoot Becky Corey dead, there and then. With a husband, at least she had emotional support and someone
to help keep a roof over her head.

“… her mother’s nest egg, loans from friends…”

“Bang bang you’re dead, Becky Corey,” Ginny said childishly.

Lee was not deterred. “Everything went into her overhead. She was two thousand dollars in arrears with the IRS, but she was
still in business. With her pieces flying out of the place, her profits were still with the factoring company. Then…” Lee
paused dramatically. “Then her neighborhood bank was swallowed up by a big bank.” Another dramatic pause. “Three years after
practically laughing her out of the place, thanks to a new program for women borrowers, the new bank owners finally agreed
to finance Becky… and now”—Lee swallowed down more wine and speeded up—“her business after one year is in such great shape,
the Sterns want to invest so she can expand and she’s looking for a number one—”

“Wait a minute. What did you say? The Sterns want to invest? Any relation to Arthur Stern?”

“Yes, yes, yes… Arthur Stern married to the dreadful Muriel, who never saw an illness she didn’t like.”

“What are you talking about, Lee?”

Lee tossed her head impatiently. “Everyone knows Madame Muriel is a chronic hypochondriac who hates to go
out, always terrified of catching something. That’s why she lets the equally dreadful Arthur off the leash from time to time.
Their home is like something out of a sci-fi comic, with major dust-busting vents in the ceilings where other people that
rich have chandeliers…”

Ginny burned. Why hadn’t Becky Corey sat next to Stern and spurned him at the Waldorf? Why had it had to be her? Why was she
always in the wrong place at the wrong time? Where had she gone so wrong?

“I told her I knew the best there is, Ginny Walker of New York…”

“The best what?” Ginny asked listlessly.

Lee looked exasperated. “I repeat, she’s looking for the best design assistant. I told her I know the best there is, Ginny
Walker of New York.”

“You mean she’s moving to New York?”

“Of course not. Well, not yet, not until the Sterns really get involved. You would have to move to L.A. I still have to check
out her credentials, but I’d say her business is on solid ground and if the Sterns are serious, the sky’s the limit.” Lee
gave Ginny her usual once-over. “I think the West Coast would suit you. It might even give you back that look you used to
have… as if something wonderful was about to happen in the next twenty minutes. Where did that look go? I miss it.”

It was all too much to bear. Incensed, Ginny cried, “You and your looks! That’s all you ever think about. I’m the girl without
a look, remember?”

Lee was hurt. “You don’t have to get so excited. Is there any interest or not?” she asked huffily.

California. A new life. Lots of Stern money. Away from crashing, away from deceit, away from the loft with its sinister secret.
For a few seconds, it was so tempting, so uplifting, but, of course, it was impossible.

How could she go anywhere until Alex freed her from her crushing burden? And then there was Johnny. Somehow, for no reason
that made any sense, the thought of leaving New
York and Johnny was impossible, too. At least for the moment it was.

Lee still looked hurt. To make amends for her outburst, Ginny put out her hand. “Sorry, Lee. I probably shouldn’t have come
tonight. I’m in a foul mood. Forgive?”

Lee never wasted time on recriminations or sulking. She shook Ginny’s hand as vigorously as if they’d just concluded a deal.
“This is made for you, Ginny. I know I’m right, just as I was right about Gosman.”

“How is he? I’d love to see him.”

“Oh, he’s okay, living with some old croc-skinned widow down in Fort Lauderdale… don’t give him another thought. So let’s
see, when can I get you two designing dames together?”

“Not so fast, Lee. I am interested, but right now, it would be impossible, I’m so tied up.”

“Nonsense,” Lee boomed. “Who with? Don’t tell me Rossano Brazzi has reappeared from Milano?”

Ginny shook her head crossly. “If you’re referring to Ricardo, you’re miles out of date. I closed that door well over a year
ago.”

“So where’s the tie-up? Or rather, who is he?”

“No one. I mean I just can’t move like that, one, two, three. I gave up that life when I moved out of the family nest.”

The waiter came and they ordered tuna carpaccio, followed by pasta with sun-dried tomatoes and crabmeat. As they ate, Lee
continually tried to persuade Ginny to think about starting over in California.

To change the subject, Ginny finally said, “Did you bring the magazine,
Vogue!”

“Oh, yes.” Lee fiddled inside her backpack hanging from the chair. “That’s your behind, right?”

“Right.” Her back view, one among three or four others, had been chosen to illustrate a one-page fashion story on the new
way to wear “seven veils.” Without bothering to read the caption she recognized the scene immediately. The Guggenheim Museum.
It was the night she met Johnny for the first
time. As if she needed to be reminded, half of his back view was in the picture, too.

“So you’re out and about?”

Ginny nodded. “Just as you advised me, remember, Lee? All those shiny events you said I had to go to in order to be a success?
Well, I’m out there, all right…”

“How?” Lee’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not crashing, are you? I remember you had that crazy idea once. I hope I dissuaded you.”

Ginny didn’t answer, just shook her head smiling, but she must have given something away because Lee was still looking at
her suspiciously. “Who’s the guy in the picture, the one you’re holding hands with?”

Ginny snatched the magazine back to look at the picture again. Oh, shit. She was holding Johnny’s hand or rather he was holding
hers. It must have been just before he propelled her through the crowd to his table where the young Rockefellers were waiting
to meet him. “Oh, some journalist…”

“John Q. Peet,” Lee crowed, reading the tiny caption. “So he’s the new attraction. I don’t blame you…”

Careful, Ginny told herself. Don’t get mad and don’t be coy. She finished her glass of wine before speaking. “Oh, we’re good
pals. Like you, he knows everyone. Sometimes when he’s covering an event he’ll take me along or we run into one another if
I’m out with Poppy. He’s going to show my sketches to his fashion editor—you know, at
Next!
magazine. He’s really a good friend.”

“Have you met his father?” There was an unusual note of awe in Lee’s voice.

“No, but I will soon…”

“Oh, are you going to that Library dinner?”

Library dinner. Why did that ring a bell? Poppy. “Perhaps I can wear it to the Library do,” Poppy had said only yesterday.

“Life’s strange,” Lee said. “Remember how mad you got that night at Mr. Chow’s when I started to give you the list of Must
Events to Attend? The opening of the Costume Institute at the Met, the Literary Lions Dinner at the New York Public
Library… You were such a little nose-in-the-air snob in those days or at least you pretended to be…”