The Crasher Page 9

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Ginny, it’s me, Es… crackle… crackle… How are you?”

  “Who? Sony, the line is terrible.”

  “Esme… crackle… crackle… Jee.”

  Ginny didn’t want to say she couldn’t hear her because then she would ring again. “I’ll call you back.” She longed to hang up and go down to the street, where she knew there was a pay phone.

  “I’m on a cellular… crackle.” The line went dead.

  Esme had turned out to be a wonderful friend, but, Ginny had to admit, their relationship was now clouded by jealousy. Hers. Esme wasn’t speaking to her family anymore. Rather, they were not speaking to her, because she’d escaped from Chinatown, literally out of her bedroom window, to move in with Ted something, a guy in real estate, loaded with money and, according to Esme, incredibly attractive.

  Her family wouldn’t have cared about her running away “to live in sin” if Ted had been Chinese, Esme had told Ginny, but he was Caucasian, and, worse, Jewish. They told her that unless she gave him up, they would consider they no longer had a daughter. It didn’t seem to faze her. Although she wasn’t sure she really loved Ted, apparently they had this extraordinary sexual thing, which had completely taken over her life.

  Ginny hadn’t met Ted yet, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to, unless he had a best friend or a brother. She tried not to think about it, but every so often she asked herself why Esme and not me?

  It took an hour for Esme to call back. By then Ginny’s mother’s old friend, Sophie Formere, aka “the salt-of-the-earth,” had insisted on helping her carry her precious machine into the box of a second bedroom, one day to become famous, Alex predicted, as the “first Manhattan home of the celebrated model Ginny Walker.” She had also unpacked her suitcase, which didn’t take long because she didn’t believe in accumulating clothes.

  Instead, as an undiscovered (to date) fashion designer, she preferred to accumulate interesting fabrics, and her suitcase was full of bits and pieces. As her portfolio of designs, also in the suitcase, clearly showed, if the fabric “said something,” however small the piece, there was always something she could use it for. She also collected assorted things other people might not view as accessories. Safety pins, for instance, which she was working with right now on an asymmetrical dinner dress.

  Ginny went into a slight decline when the phone rang again at eight-forty. It was, of course, Esme, this time in a phone booth on the way to a party.

  Brought up in a home that considered any calls after seven-thirty in the evening to be nuisance calls or ones delivering very bad news (or else!), Ginny knew she sounded sharp, although Mrs. Formere was still sweetness itself when she handed her the receiver.

  “I’ve only just moved in. How did you know where to find me so soon? I was going to call you this week.”

  “I called your number in Queens, which, ‘at the customer’s request’”—Esme tried to imitate the operator’s voice, without success—“redirected all calls to a 301 number. I spoke to your father, who told me where you were.”

  “What did he say?’

  “That the Walker School of Advanced Learning is now based in Washington, D.C., so, as your modeling career is about to begin, your mother arranged for you to stay with an old friend, who’s acting as chaperone.”

  Chaperone! She could die! Only Esme, bless her, could utter the word in this day and age without sneering or laughing her head off.

  Alas, it was true. Her parents had just moved to Maryland, not D.C. (her father was still incapable of telling the truth about his real location), and Sophie Formere, God help her, was supposed to be her chaperone, as well as giving her a free roof over her head until she started to earn all the big bucks she kept hearing about.

  It had taken months of on-and-off warfare, but her mother had finally caved in, believing, she told Ginny, that this time the Walker School was joining forces with another “learn-by-mail” outfit in Chevy Chase that promised long-term stability. Leaving Ginny behind had seemed impossible, until Sophie Formere’s offer of guardianship allowed the umbilical cord to be cut.

  “Hello? Are you still there?”

  “Yes.” Ginny lowered her voice. “It’s a bit embarrassing, Esme. I’m staying with this friend of my mother’s. I’ve only been here a couple of hours and already you’ve called twice. She’s going to think I’m a phone hog.”

  Esme didn’t get the hint. “I’ll talk fast. I think I’ve found a photographer for you, someone my family knows really well. Ted and I bumped into him at a party over the weekend. He used to do paparazzi stuff, but now he’s working tegularly for magazines and big-time ad campaigns. He’s just been asked to do a job for Glamour… they’re looking for someone with a different look. I showed him that picture I took of you when you left Bloomie’s and he—”

  “What kind of look?” She could see herself in Mrs. Formere’s hall mirror. Her hair looked tatty, her skin not at its best, her delightful pointy chin down, as opposed to up for optimism.

  “Well…” Esme was a tactful girl. Ginny knew she probably wasn’t going to tell her what Glamour was really looking for. They liked doing those “before” and “after” stories. Tonight, she was definitely in the “before” category.

  “It’s hard to describe over the phone. I said you’d call him and make an appointment. His name is Oz Tabori. He’s Rumanian and he’s definitely about to make it really big.” Esme gave her his number and Ginny, relieved to get off the phone and move away from her reflection, went into the kitchen to make some coffee for Mrs. F.

  There was no doubt her mother had chosen well. Sophie For-mere was perfect for the chaperone role, a mother-hen type, who, clucking around, must have asked her a dozen times in the space of an hour, “Are you sure you have everything?”

  Ginny expressed her joy and appreciation a dozen times back, inwardly groaning. There was no need for Mrs. F. to know that, in fact, she had nothing… at least nothing that she wanted. No man, no sex, no job, no real home.

  Stop! No self-pity either, she told herself. If she hadn’t become a successful, money-earning model, let alone a super-model, in six months, no matter what anyone said (especially Mr. Alex Rossiter) she was going to forget the whole idea and comb Seventh Avenue for a job, any job, even sweeping up debris from the floor in a fashion house.

  But if she had to stay with Sophie F. for six whole months, would she be able to resist cutting off the fringes she saw everywhere? Mrs. F. surely had to have a fringe fetish. They were on everything: lamps, sofas, antimacassars (a pale lavender one in the living room might make an interesting collar on a plain black dress). Her fingers were itching to get to the scissors.

  It took ages to escape from talking about what the salt-of- the-earth described as “the good old days,” way back when she worked as a fitter with Virginia in San Diego, days Ginny was pretty sure her mother wouldn’t describe that way.

  When Mrs. F. began to describe her present “very important” job, Ginny stood up.

  “Please excuse me, Mrs. Formere…”

  “Oh, do call me Sophie, dear.”

  “Er, Sophie, I must wash my hair. I’m seeing a lot of photographers tomorrow.”

  “Oh! I do hope there’s enough hot water…” Fuss, fuss, rush, rush. Sophie was so kind, Ginny kept telling herself, but how on earth was she going to put up with it?

  Alex was supposed to pick her up at nine sharp the next morning to take her downtown, where many of the hot photographers lived in a kind of exclusive commune.

  Nine A.M. arrived and departed; so did nine-thirty, when Mrs. Formere—er, Sophie—still talking and smiling, went about her business with a gentle reminder to Ginny to double-lock the door when she went out to become the model of the decade.

  At nine-forty someone phoned on Alex’s behalf. “He’s been called into an emergency meeting.” The voice was so languid (and sexless), it took away any anxiety over the word “emergency.”

  “A photographer�
�s agent will be calling you shortly, so don’t leave the phone.” Pause. “His name’s Sam Swid…”

  “Swid as in S-W-I-D?”

  “Yep.” Click.

  By noon nobody had called; so, thanking God for Esme Jee, Ginny called the Wizard of Oz and spoke to an answering machine with such loud Heavy D background music, she could hardly hear the message. Just as she was about to hang up, the earsplitting sound stopped and a voice that sounded as if it belonged to a redwoods man with thick fatherly beard boomed over the line.

  It was Oz himself.

  He seemed to know who she was. “Come on down,” he said, “about five-thirty, six. I should be through by then…”

  As she was leaving in the late afternoon instead of the morning, she scribbled Sophie a note, in case her “chaperone” thought she’d been kidnapped. Sam Swid hadn’t called. To Hades with him and all the other promise-breakers in the world.

  After putting on and taking off everything in her wardrobe, she finally decided to wear a drop-dead two-piece white suit, made from a double-damask tablecloth she’d found on sale at Bloomingdale’s. It was deceptively simple, definitely bosom enhancing—a necessity for her optimistic size A and narrow frame.

  She couldn’t afford it, but she took a cab because she wanted to arrive in as pristine a condition as possible, and already she was sweating her makeup off through nerves and an unexpected heat wave outside.

  She didn’t know how to get to Tribeca and there was no one around to ask. The problem was the taxi driver didn’t know and didn’t care to ask, either. She only found that out after being driven round and round in circles. So much for her perfect daily budget, carefully worked out with all the expertise of her finance degree. It was already used up by the time the driver discovered Oz’s address. He screeched to a halt with a smile of triumph on his money-grabbing face as if he’d discovered the source of the Nile.

  It was well after six. Would Oz still be home?

  Ginny sighed. Of course, his studio would have to be on the top floor. She staggered up five flights of irregular stairs, massive blasts of Heavy D getting nearer.

  Blinding light and deafening sound poured through a wide open door. She had arrived. After two or three blinks, she saw she was in a huge loft, white walls, white floors, whiter-than-white everything, probably making her double-damask look dingy.

  At the far end, through tall, curtainless windows, she saw a dramatic panorama of docks, boats, cranes. New York Harbor? For a crazy minute she forgot where she was. The light was so bright, the white so dazzling, she had to put her hand over her eyes to scout the huge space for Oz or any sign of life.

  It was there all right, in a far corner, where, their backs to her, a bunch of people were scrutinizing something laid out on a table.

  Layouts? Polaroids? She knew little about the steps leading up to the finished product, the glossy, better-than-life picture in a magazine, the only kind Alex wanted her to consider.

  She looked around. There were a couple of really sleazy pictures on one of the walls, nudes with tongues hanging out, just asking for it.

  She was scared, could feel her heart thumping against the wired bra top of her jacket. She wished she was back safe among the fringes, waiting for Sam Swid’s call.

  There was a burst of laughter, so raucous it managed to be heard between drumbeats. A tall, thinner-than-a-rake guy with supernaturally pale skin and sleek jet hair held back with a comb, turned away from the table and spotted her. He was in black from top to toe, which made him look like a vampire. Ginny wondered if he was the famous photographer Steven Meisel, who only ever wore black. Did one photographer, who’d already made it, visit another, who was about to?

  Somebody said, “Hel-looo, there. You must be…”

  “Ginny Walker.” She tried to sound confident.

  Like a Martha Graham choreographed slow-motion ballet the group at the table turned, one by one, to look at the interloper. Now she could see why they’d been so engrossed. The long table was covered with food, mounds of food, technicolored shrimps and lobsters carelessly spilling out from giant clam shells, golden loaves and silver fishes, rich brown Japanese baskets (gorgeous) full of tactile, perfectly shaped vegetables and fruit. To photograph? To eat?

  Tall and skinny ambled over, followed by a burly bearded man in jeans and button-down shirt. Remembering the voice on the phone, she placed her money on the beard and gave him what Alex called her best “tail wagging” smile.

  She lost.

  “I’m Oz,” said tall and skinny. “Don’t tell me. I’m good with names. Ginny Walters?” He turned to the beard. “She’s brand-new.”

  As she corrected her name, “Thought so,” said the beard. “Who’s she with? Looks like Elite with those fascinating, slightly crooked teeth.”

  “I like the Audrey Hepburn chin, too. With the sixties coming in again, well you never know…”

  So that was the accurate description of her pointy chin, but you never know what? The bearded one was as chatty as Mrs. F., but not to her-about her.

  Oz, giving her a lank hand to shake, and the beard started to spout off about her looks in a car salesman sort of way. “Natural … original… too little color… a sort of hidden raciness…”

  Another man chimed in. “Too thin.”

  How dare he! Didn’t these terribly “in” people know one couldn’t be too rich or too thin?

  They had to be on something, but Ginny was still too scared to move and run. It was as if she was glued to the excessively white floor, not knowing what to expect, except perhaps to be offered some grass.

  “Take a roll of film on her, Oz.”

  “Go stand on the no seam.”

  She was still glued. What was he talking about? Oz put his hand on her arm and guided her to a vast sweeping sheet of seamless paper.

  “Drop your skirt, please. Just—boom—right there where you’re standing.”

  Had she heard what she thought she heard? Her mouth, Ginny knew, had formed an exact O as she stared at a deeply tanned woman who had materialized beside Oz. Even in her terror Ginny noted there were both straight pins and safety pins stuck in the woman’s white shirt, as white as the room, rubber bands around her wrists, no makeup, hair scrunched unbecomingly back, all business. Was she about to be raped by a lesbian?

  The tan cracked into a smile. “Trust me. I’m Lee Baker Davies, a stylist. Your jacket is long enough—you’ll still be decent. I want to see your legs. We’re looking for great legs for Hanes. Your arrival could be divine providence.”

  Not for her. This was intolerable. Now she could see a couple of girls, who had to be models, standing by the table, either minus their skirts or wearing the shortest minis in fashion history.

  She’d always considered her legs to be pretty good, but her father’s voice was loud in her ears, going on about joining the meat market. “No, not today.” She was amazed how firm she sounded.

  “She’s right. Not today. Tomorrow.” Oz smiled at her. He had a terrific quirky smile. His teeth, although also slightly crooked, were not in the least bit fascinating, but then they didn’t need to be.

  “Let’s talk,” he said vaguely.

  The Heavy D din had ceased. Now there was a babble of voices and she could see plumes of smoke curling up and smell the sweet sickly smell of marijuana.

  The sun began to go down, its great glow outside the window making everyone around the harvest festival table look rosy. No one took any notice of her, so she took a plate and filled it with the photogenic fruit and vegetables, trying to look as if she belonged there. The conversation was fascinating.

  “Serena was my booker,” one skirtless, gorgeous redhead who looked about ten feet tall was saying to another ten-footer, this one ice-blonde. “She wanted me to go with her when she opened her agency, but I knew it wouldn’t last. She hasn’t the brains for the long haul and getting the best contracts. She just took the money from one of those fat short zillionaires, who let her stay in the black for
as long as she supplied a different beautiful girl every night. As soon as one hooked him, he closed the agency down.”

  “I’m going to Click…”

  “Eileen is suing…”

  “When is she handing over?”

  “Never!”

  “Enjoying yourself?” Oz’s hand encircled her waist, then moved up casually to her right breast.

  “Don’t do that.”

  He ignored her, his hand staying awhile in forbidden territory before moving slowly back to her waist. “Tomorrow, come back tomorrow. Bring a selection of things. Esme’s snap was okay. You do have a new look, maybe the one I’m looking for.”

  “How… how… sorry, how do I get uptown by subway or bus from here?”

  “Where d’you hang out?” He saw the tanned one striding toward the door. “Lee, are you going uptown? Will you give Ms. Puritan a lift?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Before Ginny knew it, having promised to be back at ten in the morning with a selection of clothes, she was sitting with Lee Baker Davies in a sedan with a Big Apple sign in the window, going fast uptown.

  “You’re really new to this business, aren’t you?”

  Ginny huddled in the corner with her hands crossed in front like a prize fighter. “Well, yes.”

  Although she hadn’t asked her, Lee Baker Davies started to explain in a headmistressy way, exactly what being a stylist meant—“a sort of fashion interpreter, someone who helps the photographer get what the client’s looking for by choosing the clothes, putting the right things together, adding, taking away, you know, that sort of thing.” Ginny nodded dutifully.

  Before Baker Davies dropped her off, she said, with all the concern of a maiden aunt, “Are you dead set on becoming a model?”

  There was a long pause. “Well, not really. Eventually I’m going to be a fashion designer.”

  “That’s good.” Ms. B.D. sounded as if she meant it.

  “Why?”

  “It’s a tough business. You look like a sweet, unspoiled thing.”

  Ginny could feel herself blushing. “I’m tougher than I look.”