The Crasher Page 28

  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…”

  “I had a lot to learn. I hope I’ve grown up some.” Ginny felt ashamed. Lee had always been such a wonderful friend and tonight she’d treated her unforgivably. She leaned over and gave Lee a quick peck on the cheek. “The Literary Lions Dinner… yes, absolutely right. Quentin Peet’s one of the Lions this year, isn’t he? When is that, I’ve forgotten?”

  It was irritating to see Lee flash her catlike grin again. She probably guessed Ginny was playing her game and not so well, trying to hook some information she didn’t have.

  “I’m not sure. Sometime in May, I think. Ask Johnny Peet. He’ll know.” Lee paused, then looked at her anxiously. “Do watch out, honey chile, won’t you? I hear he bites.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Ginny said.

  “You don’t believe what?”

  It was early on Sunday evening. Johnny had taken her to watch the New York Rangers play ice hockey against the Florida Panthers at Madison Square Garden and they’d run through pouring rain to grab a cab to Johnny’s home office, where he wanted to go over the next week’s agenda.

  “People say you bite,” she said.

  “What people?” He was rubbing his hair dry. Little wet tendrils stuck to his forehead. He looked like a kid. He looked adorable.

  “Oh, journalists, writers I know.”

  She was in a reckless, challenging mood, because the afternoon had been so wonderful, because Johnny was undoubtedly becoming more relaxed with her, teasing her, showing her with his quick grins, playful touches and in a myriad little fond ways that he liked working with her and having her around.

  He came over to the well-worn sofa, where she was sitting with her notebook, ready to take notes.

  He began to rub her hair dry vigorously.

  “Stop! Don’t! You’re messing up my twenty-dollar haircut,” she squealed.

  He stopped as if in shock. “What did you say? Twenty dollars? Is that what you pay for that kooky-looking head of hair?”

  He was smiling, but she wasn’t amused. “Thanks for the compliment,” she said sharply. “I happen to like this look.” She wasn’t about to tell him she kept a list of top salons, mentioned in Vogue, where, after hours, trainees cut and styled hair for next to nothing.

  “And so do I, Ms. Ginny… and so do I.” He brushed her hair back with a strong hand, holding the back of her head, smiling, looking at her intently. “Twenty dollars?” he repeated.

  She felt weak as he held her, but managed to say, “Why… why are you staring at me like that? Yes, twenty dollars if you must know.”

  “I’m trying to understand something… something I’ve never told you.”

  “What?”

  His hand was still there. Her body stirred as if to say, don’t go away… bring me closer… closer… can’t you tell how much I want you?

  He didn’t react, just stared, then said, “I think it’s the hair, the way it curls so perfectly around your perfect head and also the way you always stand so tall, such perfect posture…”

  She groaned inwardly. Sexually aroused as she was, she found herself thinking about another man in her life; remembering to stand tall, to think about her posture, was so inextricably linked with Alex.

  “So?”

  Johnny took his hand away abruptly. “Don’t take it as too much of a compliment, but sometimes, although you really look nothing alike and, thank God, are nothing alike, you remind me of Dolores, my ex-wife, who, if my memory’s correct, wouldn’t dream of paying less than a couple of hundred bucks for a haircut not so very different from yours. Not different at all, in fact…”

  Ginny was stunned. Dolores the Beautiful?

  “That’s crazy,” she said. “I’ve seen her and I am going to take it as a compliment because she’s probably one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen…”

  “Outside maybe; inside as ugly as sin.” He was snarling. “When did you see her? You never told me that before.”

  “I didn’t think it was important. Oh, I don’t know. Around. At fashion shows, parties…”

  “Crash, crash, crash… all part of your modus operandi, right? To see and be seen by the beautiful people.”

  The change in his voice, harsh, sarcastic, was so unexpected, tears filled her eyes, even as she snapped, “Now I believe it… you do bite… you’re horrible…”

  He slung a casual arm around h
er shoulders. “I’m sorry, Ginny. I’m really sorry. Perhaps I do bite, perhaps I do, but I don’t want to bite you, ever…” He pulled her head onto his shoulder. He softly began to talk, his voice, sometimes as he turned, muffled in her hair.

  “I guess I didn’t know how to be a husband. My father certainly didn’t. He was always away, getting the story, beating the other guys to it.” He sighed, long and heavy. “A hero, not a husband.” He talked about his parents’ empty marriage, and his own, “doomed from the start.”

  Once he started, he didn’t seem to want to stop. “I obviously should never have gotten married. They were both against it… my father, my mother… looking back, I think that made me even more determined to go ahead, although the writing was on the wall almost from the beginning. I didn’t want to see. I wanted to believe her, just as I guess my mother always wanted to believe whatever my father told her…”

  Ginny shut her eyes to hide the longing growing for him, the bittersweet longing that was getting her nowhere.

  She opened them when he chucked her under the chin. “Why am I telling you all this? Why am I wasting your time and mine?”

  As suddenly as that first night in the loft, he turned her face to his and gave her the same sweet, quick kiss on the mouth. This time no phone rang to stop the magic, but, she supposed, some inner voice warned him to go no farther, because almost immediately he jumped up with a rueful smile.

  “Getting late, Ginny. I don’t know what came over me. We have work to do, n ‘est-ce pas?”

  It was later, during that Sunday evening, that Ginny showed Johnny some sketches she’d made of the facial expressions she frequently encountered when crashing (disdain, shock, disbelief, snobbishness, fury). He liked them so much, he decided he might use them in the book.

  From then on, when he “booked” her (his word), either to crash something or go in his place, or, best of all, accompany him to an event, he often asked her to bring a sketchbook along. He still called her “partner” and “colleague” and “super spy,” but he also called her “skinny swan” and “kooky head” and “twenty-dollar baby” and showed her more and more he hadn’t forgotten she was a woman. No more kisses, but no signs of being “tied up,” either.