The Crasher Read online

“Just don’t get your hopes up too high, and if you do have what it takes, don’t believe everything everyone tells you. I think you need to work on your look. You must have a certain look. That doesn’t mean you aren’t cute, but…” Baker Davies leaned across and, to Ginny’s alarm, kissed her on the cheek. “I hope I see you again.” Thank heavens she hadn’t tried to kiss her before, when they first got in the car. She would surely have slugged her.

  “Here’s my card. Call me if you need any help in this hell of a city and for God’s sake stay away from drugs.”

  As if anyone had to tell her that! Ginny was about to tear the card up, but luckily looked at it first. Harper’s Bazaar, it said, Lee Baker Davies, Contributing Editor.

  Determined not to waste any more money on taxi drivers as ignorant of Manhattan as herself, Ginny spent a couple of hours that evening, with Sophie’s help, researching the city’s transit system. It was something, she thought wryly, her father would thoroughly have enjoyed.

  At eight-thirty the next morning, with Sophie waving goodbye from her front door as if she was going off to war, Ginny—in jeans, T-shirt and positive attitude—left, carrying her most avant-garde designs in one of Sophie’s garment bags.

  It was lucky she allowed so much time, because the subway was sluggish. She lost her way once or twice changing trains and didn’t arrive at the Tribeca studio until five minutes to ten.

  Oz was ready to go to work, which included, Ginny swiftly learned, a wide variety of passes—as he adjusted her positions, asked her to look at Polaroids of herself, and turned up in the makeshift dressing room behind a screen whenever he asked her to change.

  Nevertheless, in ten days, after hours of playing hide-and-seek with Oz, evading his most blatant pounces, Ginny had enough pictures to create a contact sheet to show the model agency lucky enough to represent her.

  She wore her own designs in all the shots, a keyhole swimsuit in denim (that was the most perilous Oz session of all), a body-molding, long-sleeved bodysuit in oilskin, and her double-damask “Ms. Innocence” dress, as Oz called it.

  There were also two close-ups, one with her hair slicked as close to her head as Oz slicked his, another with her hair blown out in a voluminous cloud by a freelance hairdresser who’d dropped by.

  Hairdressers, makeup artists and an endless procession of wannabe models with their “books” dropped in to see Oz throughout the day, all hoping he would add them to his repertoire of sources. Soon, he told Ginny, he would have enough money to build a reception area and hire a receptionist to block anyone without an appointment.

  “The pictures are sensational,” Oz exclaimed, and Ginny agreed with him, particularly the way her clothes looked.

  Sam Swid had been on the phone, noticeably relieved when she told him she was busy being photographed by Oz Tabori. “He’s okay. He’s okay,” he said eagerly, as if she was looking for a reference.

  And where was cousin Alex, the man responsible for her taking this six-month diversion out of her fashion-designing agenda? The man who’d started her on what she hoped would not turn out to be a model goose-chase?

  “Gin, darling, we have the worst luck, but just as you’re starting a new life, so am I,” Alex called from the airport. For one terrifying moment she thought he was going to tell her he was getting married, but no, thank heavens, he was about to go into a new partnership with a Swiss tycoon.

  “Sorry, puss, but I hear from Sam all is going well?”

  She hadn’t the energy to say it was no thanks to him. “Yes, I can’t wait to show you the pictures.”

  “Soon I’ll be able to buy them in all the best magazines. See you in three months. Take care.”

  “Height 5’9” (actually 8½”, but Oz said it didn’t matter: all the models exaggerated). Bust 34A. Waist 23”. Hips 34”. Shoes 7b. Hair chestnut. Eyes—she wanted to put topaz, but Oz insisted on green-hazel. This was her model curriculum vitae.

  B.A. in finance? Brilliant fashion designer? School diving champion?

  Oz laughed the quirky laugh she’d grown to like when she suggested adding these not inconsiderable assets.

  “Honey, when Vogue or Bazaar book you to pose in a pair of Ralph Lauren’s jodphurs or Karl Lagerfeld’s backless suit or a dab of Calvin Klein’s Obsession, they don’t give a damn that you were on the diving team or that you dream up your own clothes…”

  Dream up your own clothes! She longed to correct him, but what was the use.

  It was D Day. Following a call from Oz, she was going today with her contact sheet to see and be seen by someone at Ford Models Inc., the most famous model agency in the world.

  Oz told her it wasn’t too important what she wore to the interview; more important was how she held herself, to remember to look as tall as possible (in three-inch heels—at least Alex hadn’t forgotten to buy her a pair), her posture…

  Ginny didn’t believe him. She still believed in what Alex told her a long time ago: What you wear and how you wear it says a lot about who you are.

  It was beginning to get seasonably cool, so she could wear a little two-piece number she’d just run up in a light jersey. It was an experiment which had turned out incredibly well. Because her arms were so skinny, she’d set the sleeves in a different way, so they were extensions of a continuous line. They looked like floating wings and prevented the top riding up when she lifted her arm, holding on in the subway or flagging down a cab. Surely Eileen Ford would appreciate something as original as that.

  One of the marvelous things she’d learned about Ford was, they not only gave models with the most potential room and board, they groomed them and taught them useful little things, like how to use a finger bowl. Because of all the drugs pervading the industry, they also apparently heavily chaperoned “their girls,” but in a professional way, not like the smothering, suffocating, fringe-laden atmosphere surrounding her now.

  As Oz had warned her, there were a lot of wannabes in the waiting room at the agency. Ginny gave them a quick survey and felt she didn’t have much competition. The one sitting next to her was the worst dressed of the lot. An obvious blonde with strange slanting eyes, she looked as if she was wearing a sugar sack, which did nothing for what Ginny suspected was a superb body underneath.

  She was such a warm, friendly girl, who introduced herself as Poppy Gan, that Ginny was embarrassed. Should she give her some dress tips? No, of course she couldn’t without appearing to insult her. Instead, they talked about movies and men, Poppy saying with a giggle, “They’re all little boys at heart.”

  It was a very long wait, so Ginny began to confide her hopes of eventually becoming a dress designer. She told Poppy more than she meant to, but Poppy was enthralled, admiring her new-style sleeves and saying she’d love some for herself.

  Finally, at eleven-thirty, Ginny was summoned inside. She wasn’t nervous. She reminded herself that she was in a more fortunate position than most models. With a finance degree she could negotiate a contract, although in the beginning she knew she would have to accept the standard—but only for the first few months. She intended to make that clear in a charming way.

  To her disappointment she discovered she was not seeing the great founder of the agency, Eileen Ford, but her daughter, who everyone said would be taking over in the not too distant future.

  Ginny smiled confidently and made sure her sleeve fell gracefully as she extended her hand to say hello.

  Unfortunately Katie Ford looked up very quickly, then down again. Perhaps she was shy. It must be difficult following her star of a mother. Ms. Ford put her hand out for her pictures. There was quite a long pause. Ginny was sure she was noting the style of the clothes and she could hardly wait to tell her she’d designed them all herself.

  Have patience, Ginny. Although she was sitting straight, something she no longer needed to be told, the selector of future supermodels was actually slouching behind her desk, perhaps to make applicants less nervous.

  At last Ms. Ford looked up. “Sorry,” she
said, “I don’t see it. It’s not here.”

  “I don’t un… un… understand?” Ginny stuttered.

  “There’s no distinct look. These are attractive pictures. You’re an attractive girl, but I’d forget about being a model if I were you. There’s something…” Ms. Ford hesitated, and in Ginny’s desperate humiliation, she clung to the thought she was going to mention the clothes, but no, to her despair Ford said bluntly, “Your features are too anonymous.”

  Did anonymous mean forgettable? Ford looked at the pictures again. Ginny was so disbelieving, she still expected her to change her mind.

  She buzzed her secretary. “Is Nancy around?” She nodded, then stood up, indicating the shot in the long-sleeved body-suit. “Can I see your hands?”

  Slowly, not understanding what it all meant, Ginny extended her hands, no longer caring that her sleeves were doing everything expected of them.

  “You have good hands. If you grow your nails we may be able to get you work as a hand model. I’ll show your sheet to one of our chief bookers. Call her when your nails are longer.”

  Ms. Ford sat down, head down. Under her desk Ginny saw she was wearing leather thonged sandals.

  Good hands! She wanted to use them to strangle the woman. She didn’t know how she was going to get out of her office. She wanted to ask for another opinion, for the senior doctor, Eileen, to look at her case, not to leave it to the poor judgment of the junior. Ginny opened the door, still not able to accept that her interview was over.

  Poppy looked up anxiously as Ginny hovered. “How was it?”

  Ginny looked back at Katie Ford, still thinking she might change her mind. “Are you all right?” Ford asked solicitously.

  Ginny swallowed hard. Poor Poppy. To think she would now have to endure the same treatment. “Yes, I’m all right. Now you’re going to see a real superstar, Poppy Gan. She has more than great hands.” She laughed hysterically. She was being sarcastic. In fact, she didn’t know what she was saying, but Poppy looked thrilled, squealing, “Oh, thank you, Ginny. Thank you so much.”

  “Well?”

  It was Oz on the phone the next day, the worst twenty-four hours of her life. In Sophie’s hall mirror, Ginny saw her eyes were red, with one of her “good hands” now practically bereft of nails.

  Sophie had been so worried by her sobs she’d called her mother, who’d immediately demanded she take the shuttle for some TLC in Maryland, but that was the last thing Ginny wanted to do.

  “Why haven’t you called me?” Oz at his most autocratic. “What happened?”

  She told him in staccato sentences. She sounded in complete control.

  “Asshole!”

  “Who, me?” Her self-esteem had never been so low.

  “Don’t be stupid. Now I know what I’m hearing must be for real. Ford isn’t making it anymore. You’d better come on down here immediately. I just can’t believe what I’m hearing. Those shots were sensational.”

  She lapped up every word, thinking of the thonged sandals beneath the desk. What were Ms. Ford’s toenails like?

  “Come on, Ginny. I want to talk to you.”

  When she didn’t answer, Oz sighed long and heavy into the phone. “Wear that slinky, snaky bodysuit. I’ll send a car for you around eight. We’ll go out and have some fun for a change.”

  It took a lot of Sophie’s Clinique Concealer, but she put on a brave face and her oilskin, although now that it was fall, it felt clammy under a coat.

  “Where are you going, Ginny?”

  Sophie had no business asking her, but after her heavy sobbing act, Ginny admitted she had reason to worry.

  Trying to put Sophie’s mind at rest, she was all false smiles and optimism. “I’ve got a date… with an editor. Don’t wait up for me. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  And that was what Oz kept saying over and over again in the Tribeca bistro, where another Big Apple sedan had deposited her. “It’s my mistake, Ginny. I should never have sent you to Ford. You’re an Elite girl, just as Bruce said.”

  Bruce? Oh, yes. The Bearded One.

  Oz leaned over and cupped her face in his hands. “Cindy Crawford was originally turned down because—”

  “—of her mole.” How many more times did she have to hear that story?

  As she drank too much wine, Oz was making life sound better and better. “Before you see Casablancas, I want you to go see an editor at Elle tomorrow, or one day this week. She called me today about a beauty sitting…”

  The bistro was near his studio. It seemed to make perfect sense to stroll back there, with Oz’s arm slung affectionately around her shoulders. Everything she liked about him was emphasized; everything she didn’t like, she’d forgotten.

  As they climbed the stairs, his hand, beneath her coat, stroked the back of her oilskin, moving down to her behind. She liked it—a lot. Would she end up in bed with him? Probably. In fact, she was looking forward to it, in a groggy sort of way—until they reached his front door, the first time she’d ever seen it closed.

  Sitting on the floor outside was an exquisitely pretty black girl. A shawl loosely draped around her shoulders revealed a bikini top and a sarong, which showed yards of glossy black leg. There was an overnight bag all too clearly beside her. Was Oz upset? Not that much.

  “Well, this is a surprise. When did you get in?”

  “Landed a coupla hours ago…” She had a soft, singsong Caribbean accent. “An’ I came right ov’r like you tol’ me to in Jama’ca.”

  Unlocking the door Oz said, “Ginny, meet Ursula. Ursula, meet Ginny. Let’s all go in for some grass and see where it leads us, shall we?”

  Group sex? She was never going to be that drunk. She had too much catching up to do on the twosome kind first. Her tiny fire of desire fizzled out. “Not tonight, Oz. I’ve got to get some beauty sleep for the beauty sitting.”

  He knew her well enough not to give her an argument; instead, he put her in a cab. “I’ll set everything up. Now don’t give Ford another thought.” He obviously couldn’t wait to race back upstairs.

  “In interviews and court papers Miss Duke’s friends and former employees describe a lonely old woman who grew more and more isolated from others and dependent on Mr. Lafferty in her dotage. As her health declined, her natural suspicion of people’s motives grew and she changed her will four times in the last three years of her life…”

  Quentin Peet swung his legs up onto the desk and pushed the newspaper away. So now there was going to be a criminal investigation and Mr. Lafferty, the lucky butler, was going to have to fight for control of the 1.2 billion-dollar-fortune Doris Duke had left in his hands.

  Peet sighed heavily and leaned back in his favorite chair, his writing chair. He knew about suspicion and changed wills all right. Suspicion corroded feelings, stifled trust, and in the end created hatred, no matter what one did to prove allegations were unfounded.

  He’d stood on his head to prove to Cathy he still loved her, that he was still faithful. In his own fashion he had been faithful. Only his body, never his mind, had been involved with other women, when he’d allowed himself the occasional fuck after a long and particularly dangerous mission.

  Okay, so in recent years he hadn’t missed her when he’d been away. Did any partner in a thirty-year-plus marriage still miss their spouse when they got off the domestic hook for a while? He didn’t believe it.

  And Cathy, that fastidious, perfectly groomed woman, hadn’t wanted to go with him much after the first few years. She considered she’d done her bit, roughing it as the wife of a foreign correspondent based in the Far East and the Philippines. She’d liked the servants all right, then damn it, with England’s crazy quarantine laws when he received the first of many rewards, the London Bureau, at first she hadn’t wanted to leave the dog! Perhaps he shouldn’t have fought so hard to persuade her. Perhaps it would have been better if she’d stayed home. Then she wouldn’t have gotten pregnant, then they might never have had a child.

 
Peet could feel his anger building up again. He looked at his watch. It was too early, but after the events of the last few days, he needed a drink. He got up and poured himself a stiff scotch.

  All right, so he’d been too damned busy to miss her, but, funnily enough, right up until the end he always believed he loved her, despite her maddening waspy habits, despite her hypocrisy, showing to her equally well-bred friends only a damned stiff upper lip about his long absences abroad, while endlessly breathing heavily and tearily into the phone to him.

  He’d often told her he’d prefer her to scream like a banshee and get the pent-up resentment out of her system, but her water-in-the-veins hoity-toity parents hadn’t brought her up to behave like that, and in recent years she’d used her “delicate health” as a special weapon to torment him.

  Now she was gone. All the years of trying to be as decent a husband and father as he could, while doing his job to the best of his capacity, were wasted. She’d left every penny of her Ponsoby money to the son born in London, to Johnny. He still couldn’t believe it. Almost a million and a half after taxes, to a wastrel son who hadn’t had the decency to let even a week go by after the reading of the will, before quitting the Times and telling him he was going to write a column for Next! magazine, of all disgraceful publications.

  He would never forgive Cathy for slapping his face so publicly from beyond the grave. Never. He probably would find it hard to forgive Johnny, too, although he’d seen for himself how stunned Johnny had been by his mother’s will, as stunned as he’d been himself.

  Or had he been putting on an act? Was it possible he’d misjudged Johnny all these years, thinking of him, often ruefully, as a fairly bright young man of average talent and ambition, who’d never set the world on fire, but who, nonetheless, was decent, honest, caring?

  Peet poured himself another scotch. Had his son changed since his marriage to Dolores, the wildcat from Bolivia, whose claim to fame was a publicly aired threat of bankruptcy at twenty-one? Had Johnny changed or had he always been Machiavellian, cunning, hiding an array of objectives beneath his easygoing, softhearted manner?