The Crasher Page 32

  “Are you okay?”

  “Of course, I’m okay,” she said crossly. “You just startled me.” Without thinking she blurted out, “I was going to a dinner party tomorrow night…”

  “Where?”

  How dare he question her after being away for fifteen whole days. Who did he think he was? Coolly, “Oh, a friend of Ted and Esme’s…”

  “Male?”

  When she didn’t answer, he went on in the same sweet, soft voice. “I’ve got a surprise for you, Ginny. Can’t you make it tomorrow, for me, at six, please?”

  She sighed, a deliberate, subordinate-reporting-for-duty sigh of resignation. “Okay, okay, I’ll try to change my plans. Long dress, six o’clock, American Cancer, right?”

  “Right. Until then, Ms. Ginny. I can’t wait, but you’re worth waiting for.”

  So he’d bought her a surprise in Puerto Rico. She wished he hadn’t. She’d had enough surprises to last a lifetime. Now she was so awake, she wondered how she’d ever get back to sleep. She deliberated about calling him back to ask him to come over after all, but she worried she might not be able to lie about her plans face-to-face with him.

  The phone rang three times between six-thirty and eight the next morning, but every time Ginny picked it up there was no one there, not even any heavy breathing.

  It was so unsettling, and in the bright light of day she knew there was no way she could see Johnny at six, no way she could pretend to be going one place and turn up at another, no way she could see him at all that day and still be able to go through with her crash plan.

  She’d already given herself the day off to relax, to wash and set her hair and perhaps give herself a face mask. She was just out of the shower when Esme called to see if she’d like to come over “for tea or catch a movie this afternoon?” Esme sounded bored. “Ted’s at a meeting in Toronto, and won’t be back till about eight or nine…”

  Darling Esme—here was Ginny’s solution.

  “I’d love to, but I can’t do a movie. I have to go out early this evening. I was thinking of calling you. I’d love to come over to change at your place and get some help with my hair… I want you to see how your bridesmaid dress looks now. I need your vote of approval.” She did, too, or at least some reassurance that she’d never looked better. With Esme’s endless curiosity about her life, Ginny was sure she wouldn’t be able to resist the opportunity to find out the latest episode.

  “Oh, I’d love you to come over. Is Johnny back?”

  “He’s back.”

  “So you’re meeting him later? Where are you going? Somewhere suitably romantic, I hope?”

  Ginny hesitated, murmuring, “Uptown somewhere… I’ll tell you all about it when we meet.”

  Before she left the loft just before four, with her total ensemble, cloak, dress, evening sandals and purse, in a voluminous old Gosman garment bag, Ginny decided she couldn’t let Johnny arrive all the way downtown and find no one home. At least she would cover herself by leaving a message. She prayed she’d get his answering service. She did.

  “I’m really sorry, Johnny, but I couldn’t get out of my date. It’s such a bore. I hope you’ll understand, but you didn’t give me enough notice. See you soon. Tomorrow? Miss you.” She knew her voice was wobbly, but it was the best she could do.

  On the way to Esme, Ginny decided to tell her best friend the truth, to confess she was crashing because Johnny, for some paranoid reason, didn’t want her to meet his illustrious father.

  When Esme opened the door with a big grin, bursting with excitement about her imminent “reunion” with. Johnny, Ginny couldn’t get the real, unflattering facts out.

  “Is Johnny picking you up here? I hope so.”

  “No, he’s… eh… he’s on deadline. I’m meeting him there.”

  “Where?”

  Ginny sighed. There was no chance Esme wouldn’t demand to know all the where-why-and-how details. She’d mentioned she was going somewhere uptown, but she’d just have to hope Esme hadn’t caught it.

  “The New York Public Library,” she said defensively. “There’s an important dinner there tonight, something called the Literary Lions, where Johnny’s father’s going to be honored.”

  “Oh, my! How glamorous.” Esme squealed with pleasure when Ginny showed her the cloak. “My, my, my, there’s that border from that godawful sofa. Who would believe it! It’s sumptuous, ravishing. You’ve really outdone yourself this time. Ginny, you’re just a genius, there’s no other word for it.”

  When Ginny took out the renovated bridesmaid dress, Esme was far more restrained, and from her lack of comments, let alone compliments, Ginny realized the changes didn’t meet with Esme’s approval. She could have kicked herself for her insensitivity. Obviously, Esme was upset; obviously she’d wanted Ginny to preserve the bridesmaid dress just as it was, even if she could never wear it again.

  “Sorry, Esme. I can see from the look on your face I should never have altered a stitch, but when I saw the velvet for the cloak I knew the blush color would go so perfectly with it. I hope you’re not too mad at me?”

  “No, I’m not mad, Ginny, just a bit shocked. I…I only wish you’d started from scratch and made a new dress…”

  It didn’t take long for Esme to forgive and forget and soon they were shrieking with laughterther—Ginny didn’t even know what about. She was light-headed with a mixture of fear and elation, apprehension and anticipation.

  By the time she was ready (Esme helped, first coiling her hair into a sophisticated chignon, then making up her eyes, and finally insisting Ginny borrow her deep gold Lancôme lipstick), it was after six and it had begun to spit with rain.

  When the phone rang Ginny tensed, sure it was Johnny trying to track her down, but it wasn’t. It was Ted’s company chauffeur telling Esme the boss’s arrival time at the airport.

  Looking out of the window, receiver in hand, Esme turned to Ginny. “You can’t get that divine cloak wet—or your dress either. You must take Ted’s car. He won’t need it until later this evening. He’s not arriving until eight forty-five at La Guardia. What time d’you need to be at the library?”

  With such a heaven-sent offer, Ginny saw that the best time to arrive was being decided for her. “Seven-thirty?” she suggested. Her heart thumped beneath the soft crepe.

  “Does that give you enough time to pick my husband up?” Esme said into the phone. Ginny could see from the look of pride on Esme’s face she loved saying “my husband.” Who wouldn’t?

  “Okay. Why don’t you come over now. To the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue. Yes, fine.” Esme put the phone down. “He’s just filling up with gas. He’ll be here in about twenty minutes.”

  The rain had decided only to spit and not to pour as Ted’s Mercedes pulled up at the fine stone staircase leading to the library’s main entrance on Fifth Avenue.

  Strange, there was no canopy outside, no red carpet and nobody climbing the steps. Aware that the chauffeur obviously couldn’t wait to be on the way to the airport, Ginny thanked him politely, and pulling the cloak around her, began her ascent

  Now her nerves were giving her trouble. She thought she might easily be sweating away all Esme’s eye expertise. She began to feel faint. It looked as if the giant doors were shut tight. Had she made a mistake about the date? She couldn’t have. There had been a few references in the papers to the Literary Lions dinner since the day she’d first opened the invitation on Johnny’s desk. The date was etched in her brain.

  She stopped after climbing the first flight. Was someone calling her name? At first she was too nervous to look around, but when it came again, “Ginny… Ginny Walker, is that you?” she turned, remembering for some unknown reason Alex’s advice about the importance of good posture.

  She froze. It was Oz, the wily wizard of Oz bounding up the steps toward her, a camera bag slung over the shoulder of his tux. “Whew,” he blew a long low whistle. “Do you look gorgeous or do you look gorgeous, Miss Ginny.” He was
the last person in the world she expected or, certainly, wanted to see. She gave him a feeble smile.

  “And where are you going, so dressed to kill?” Luckily he didn’t give her a chance to reply. “Looking like a heroine, it must surely be the Literary Lions dinner? But you’re going the wrong way, m’darling. The invitation says enter on Forty-second Street, cocktails in the Celeste Bartos Forum, remember? May I escort you?”

  She remembered only too well her behavior to Oz at Esme’s wedding. She didn’t deserve any courtesy from him. Why was he being so charming? Whatever his reason, she was already unnerved by choosing the wrong entrance and she realized Oz could be a valuable lifeline if, God forbid, she needed one.

  “Oz, how lucky you saw me. I wasn’t thinking. My car dropped me here… How stupid of me. Of course, I should be around the corner…” She gave him her most vivid smile, and tucked her arm in his.

  “Who are you meeting? That magazine guy, Peet? Can’t he ever pick you up?” Now, his tone wasn’t so friendly.

  “Maybe.” She tried to sound coquettish. “Maybe not.”

  “Oh, so you’re a woman of mystery tonight. Well, perhaps by the time the evening ends, you’ll tell me why you’ve never returned my calls and why you were so fucking cold at Esme’s wedding?”

  “Perhaps,” she said, determined to keep the same light, flirtatious tone. “Perhaps not.”

  As they reached the portico on Forty-second Street the rain started up again. Now there were plenty of people arriving in various styles of evening dress, scuttling to get inside, where there was already a line for the cloakroom.

  “Give me that doozy of a cloak. I’ve never seen anything so gorgeous.”

  Ginny hated to take it off. Photographers were approaching. She twirled around once or twice as their flashes went off, before reluctantly unfastening the clasp.

  “I hope you’re not wearing anything underneath,” said Oz. He looked at her closely. “Are you feeling all right? You look pale, very pale in fact. Here”—he pointed to a bench—“why don’t you go sit while I check this.”

  “No, no, I prefer to stand. I’m all right.”

  Had she given anything away? Did Oz suspect something, because he winked as together they joined the line for the cloakroom, saying in the suggestive voice she hated, “I’m honored to escort you, slinky Gin. This is turning out to be fun after all.”

  He put his arm around her waist and squeezed her with the lecherous grin she remembered so well. Oz was making her more, not less, jittery. What if Johnny came in and saw her with someone he already thought was an old beau?

  To make matters worse, Oz tightened his grip. “I’m only here because I’m being paid a bundle to do something special, shooting these so-called Literary Lions for Hello, you know, the hot European magazine.”

  She didn’t, but who cared, as long as Oz could sweep her into the lions’ den with him, smoothly, quickly before Johnny might see them together. “Please God, please God,” she prayed under her breath, “let me get in without a problem.”

  “If this turns out to be as big a yawn as I think it might be, how about you and I cutting loose after I’ve taken what I need?” Oz’s arm was still wrapped tightly around her waist as they reached the counter and he handed over her precious cloak of armor.

  “Why not? Let’s see.” As soon as she was through the barricade she would have to get rid of him, fast. Before Oz had a chance, she took the cloakroom ticket from the attendant and put it in her tiny purse.

  They were part of the elegant, laughing, talking crowd approaching a long table, covered with dozens and dozens of small envelopes, all inscribed in perfect, expensive calligraphy, with the guests’ names. They were lined up in alphabetical order, obviously holding the table assignments.

  With a giddy sense of relief Ginny realized that this specialinvitation-only occasion, despite the high cost of tickets to benefit the library, was still being handled like a private party. There was no forbidding guardian at the gate with a master list checking names. It was taken for granted everyone arriving was an expected, welcome guest.

  She let out a small sigh. With luck, she wasn’t going to need to use Oz as an entry pass, for although a number of eager, earnest ladies were behind the table—library staff, Ginny supposed—trying to help everyone find his envelope, most people were just picking them up themselves.

  On the right was a small separate table marked “Press.” As Oz went toward it, Ginny quickly joined the crowd and, without looking at the name, picked up an envelope from the far end, where she expected the W’s to be. She put it in her purse.

  “Cocktails this way…” someone called. Later, if necessary, she would find a way to return the envelope, but right now she had to get to the cocktail party fast—for her the most important part of the evening.

  Oz was still at the press table. Quickly, Ginny followed the crowd, just managing to squeeze into a packed elevator before the doors closed.

  She was in. It had been easy, but she felt ill with the strain. She longed to find a ladies’ room to regain her composure, but didn’t want to get lost.

  She had no idea where she was going. She’d once worked at the library as a volunteer during Vogue’s Centennial Celebration there, hoping to catch the eye of a Vogue fashion editor, but there had been fat chance of that. Down in the bowels of the giant building, she’d been a gofer in every sense of the word, going to and fro, fetching and delivering, at the mercy and direction of a lowly assistant in the promotions department. It had been a nightmare.

  There was a roar. She was nearing the cocktail arena, the lions’ den, already full of literary lions. Who was who? As she stood at the entrance, she didn’t have a clue, except that around the necks of a few guests she saw not a red Napoleonic ribbon but a large bronze medallion.

  In one corner of the huge, already crowded room Ginny saw a familiar back with unruly hair, curling up at the nape. Johnny. He was part of a small, attentive audience—the word audience came immediately to her mind—surrounding the only literary lion who mattered as far as she was concerned, Johnny’s father, Quentin Peet.

  Ginny took a deep breath. It was now or never. This is what she’d come for.

  As she attempted to cut through the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd, someone grabbed her arm. Sure it was Oz and not wanting to antagonize him, Ginny turned with a flirtatious smile to excuse herself for a few minutes, but it wasn’t Oz.

  It was the man she’d so hoped to meet again one day, the man she’d sat next to at the Waldorf, the savior of designer Becky Corey and dozens like her, Arthur Stern, seeker of new talent, according to Lee Baker Davies, and married to the richest hypochondriac in America.

  “Hello there, how goes the designing? Long time no see.” Stern put out his hand. “Arthur Stern, and you are…?”

  “Ginny Walker.” She wanted to die. How could she have such bad luck to run into Stern on this night of all nights.

  “Well, Ms. Ginny, you’re looking pretty good. As I remember you’re a friend of that luscious piece of ass, Poppy Gan. Haven’t seen her yet tonight, although Mr. High and Mighty Svank has put in an appearance. Is that who…” As more people poured in, they were jostled and Stern turned angrily as the glass of wine he was holding spilled over. “Watch where you’re going.”

  She didn’t know what to do. She was torn between not letting one more second pass before showing Johnny she was there and joining the circle around his father, or not missing another opportunity to make an indelible impression on Stern now, which would lead to a business appointment later.

  As Ginny hesitated, still watching Johnny, he turned to indicate something to his father and saw her.

  He stared in astonishment, tightening his mouth the way she knew he did when he was really angry. He turned back to his father for a second, appeared to be excusing himself, and started across the room toward her.

  “Oh, excuse me, Mr. Stern. I’ll be back, but I must give a message to…” She didn’t even finish,
but started to push her way toward Johnny. It wasn’t easy, and as usual he was continually waylaid as he tried to cut through, but finally in the middle of the maelstrom they met. In her stiletto heels, they were eye to eye.

  “Well, this is a surprise.” Cold, curt voice.

  “Johnny, please don’t be mad. It isn’t what you think. This isn’t an ordinary cr—” He put his hand lightly over her mouth.

  “Don’t say the word in these exalted halls. It doesn’t belong here and neither do you. I can’t imagine how you got in, but it doesn’t matter because I don’t care. You’re a very silly girl, Ginny, very silly. Why d’you think I asked you so specially to be home at six this evening?”

  “Johnny, how are you? So glad you got back in time. I told your father… where is he anyway?” A thickset warrior of a man with a mane of dark silver hair and a medallion gleaming on his stiff white shirt appeared beside them.

  “Oh, hi, Norman. Dad’s been looking for you. Ginny Walker—meet Norman Mailer.”

  It could have been the Pope. She didn’t care. Johnny was furious, upset, that was all she cared about.

  “Excuse me, Ginny, I’ll be back.” Johnny began to lead the distinguished author over to where his father was holding court.

  “Can I come, too?”

  Without turning, Johnny shook his head. She took no notice, doggedly following him, until another hand clutched her arm. This time it was Oz, a hostile Oz, who demanded, “Why didn’t you wait for me? What was the big hurry? Who are you with, anyway? It doesn’t look as if your loverboy is taking much care of you.”

  “Oh, Oz, don’t be jealous.” She couldn’t risk his drawing attention to herself or, worse, making a scene.

  As she tried to calm him down, over his shoulder she saw Johnny ferrying people to and from his father. It sickened her. Johnny was acting like an aide-de-camp, an errand boy, a gofer, but what could he have meant when he said, “Why d’you think I asked you to be at home at six o’clock”?

  She had to get to Quentin Peet, but how could she get rid of Oz?