The Crasher Page 19

  Joan of Arc. Johnny had used the phrase in his Next!piece. He hadn’t connected Rosemary’s death by fire with the piece until now. No wonder this man hated him. But he wasn’t going to blame himself; he’d get nowhere that way. He wasn’t going to be beaten down by anyone, not even a grief-crazed husband. “So you agree she was murdered and it’s not too difficult to guess who did it,” Johnny snapped back. “Why the hush-up? If you don’t want to go after—”

  Abbott grabbed Johnny’s arm. It was as if he’d caught it in a vise. Beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead. He thought it was going to break.

  “Listen to me, Peet, one word out of you in your fucking magazine and you’re going to be found accidentally dead, too. Understand?”

  Johnny didn’t answer. He was in too much pain.

  “We’re serving lunch now, won’t you come in, Mr. Peet, Ben?” Rosemary’s mother was calling from the door.

  His hold on Johnny hadn’t relaxed, but to Johnny’s amazement, he saw Abbott smile a warm, relaxed, perfectly normal smile. “Okay, May, we’ll be right there.”

  “Capito?” he said to Johnny.

  Johnny nodded, afraid he might be about to throw up.

  Abbott gave the same warm smile to him. “Look, I know you’re trying to help, but Rosemary died in a tragic accident. When I find out who was responsible for the faulty wiring, I’ll let you know if I need any help, okay?”

  “Okay.” It wasn’t, but it wouldn’t help anyone, least of all him, to let Abbott think otherwise.

  As they strolled toward the house, Ben caught his arm again, not viciously, but with it still throbbing from the last encounter, enough to make Johnny wince.

  “I’ll say this for the last time, Peet. Stay off our turf. It isn’t a place for amateurs. If you really want to help what Rosemary and a helluva lot of others are trying to do, keep your word processor shut and your fucking mouth, too.”

  By day Ginny scoured the want ads, taking part-time jobs through a temp agency as a receptionist, a spritzer of scent at department stores (providing they weren’t owned by Svank), a hotel operator, and, swallowing her pride, a hand model. It had to be her new self-confidence, she told herself, for her nails had never looked better. In the new year, when people started to want help with their income tax, she’d earn still more money, and this was the way she would keep her head above water until that elusive prince charming turned up, the one who was going to back her business.

  If crashing hadn’t produced him yet, she was far from giving up. She’d thought she’d found him after only three months of regular crashing, meeting a venture capitalist at a reception for the Council of American Fashion Designers at Lincoln Center.

  For the first time since Ricardo, she’d worn her silver birdcage jacket with the inside-out seams, and this thin, tall version of the polished Svank had come over to introduce himself, because he was so impressed by what she was wearing. He was heaven-sent (she’d thought), that rare creature, a money man with such a finite knowledge of fashion, he’d been able to price her original design accurately, right down to its last silver button.

  They’d had an animated discussion about the profit and loss situations of many well-known designers. He’d understood what had happened to Gosman. “No financial controls,” he’d said.

  As if she didn’t know. Old man Gosman hadn’t cared that she had a finance degree, had never been willing to listen to her about money, because “whatsaslipofagalikeyouknowboutbusiness?”

  The venture capitalist had given her his card and she’d called to set up a meeting to discuss her financial needs. On the day of the meeting, she’d opened the paper to see his photograph above a story reporting his arrest for swindling thousands out of their life savings.

  “Bad luck,” was all Alex had to say when, calling from Europe, he’d listened to her sad story. And Alex was right. She had to look at it that way and concentrate on her good luck.

  Lee Baker Davies, thinking that Poppy was taking her everywhere, was “thrilled” that at last Ginny was being noticed by the mainstream press. “I’m so proud of you, my protégée,” she said fondly. “It won’t be long before you’re in business for yourself.”

  What was the point of disillusioning her? Ginny knew she’d be worried to death if she knew her “protégée” was crashing events. Instead, she told Lee the truth, that a number of affluent-looking women, admiring her clothes, had asked for and received her business card (Ginny Walker Fashion, dark gray letters on pearl gray vellum).

  No one had called yet, but “they will eventually,” said Lee. Ginny was sure they would, too, just as she was sure she’d run into Arthur Stern again, the man she’d sat next to at the Waldorf the night of her first crash, the man she’d dismissed too quickly as an obvious lecher.

  If she’d only known then what she knew now from concentrating more on the business pages of WWDand the New York Times… that Stern, who’d jokingly passed himself off as a “teddy bear manufacturer,” who might like to diversify into “teddies,” was married to one of America’s richest women (the daughter of the man who’d invented noninflammable children’s clothing). Together they sought out and backed promising small fashion businesses. “Always on the lookout for talent,” one headline had said. Now, she was on the lookout for Mr. Stern; one more chance was all she needed.

  Svank was another matter entirely. She’d made no more attempts to meet the terrible tycoon, nor would she. Poppy hadn’t volunteered to help anymore in that direction either. It was probably just as well. Her luck would change, if not tonight, next week, next month. It had to happen.

  “Has Poppy Gan arrived yet?” (Poppy’s incorrigible unpunctuality was a godsend to crashing, as was the fact she frequently didn’t turn up at all.)

  The girl at the door hastily looked down the list. “No, eh, you are…?”

  “Ginny Walker.”

  Cool, looking only slightly put-out, Ginny stared over the girl’s shoulder. She was in the lobby of the great stone mansion on Fifth Avenue, home to New York’s National Academy of Design.

  “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.