The Crasher (15 page)

She ran back. “This is available.” She handed Gosman a shimmering synthetic shantung, which, expecting the questions that
now followed, she had already tested—“howdoesitsew?”… “howdoesitpress?”

“Beautifully,” was the answer to both. “And it’s eight dollars a yard.”

Gosman held the swatch to his head as if it was an icepack.

“Whycouldn’y’findsomethinglikethisMauvelloveit…”

Mauve looked at Ginny as if she should crawl back under the stone she had just come from. Gosman growled to no one in particular, “letmeseeitmadeuptell’mtoshrinkthemarker…” Ginny already knew he always slowed his sentences down when it was expedient.
“Get it back by two,” he said carefully. “No, you can make that three. I’vegottagotothedentist.” Thank God for his root
canals.

“Shrink the marker” was a key instruction—and something of an art. She’d learned that at FIT. It meant interlocking, or placing
the pieces of a pattern together, tighter and tighter, to get as much out of the material as possible in order to make more
profit on the final product.

Ginny put up her hand. “I’ll take it.”

She adored going to the factory. It emphasized the fact that she now belonged on Fashion Avenue, dodging the rolling racks
of next season’s dresses, inhaling the smells of chicken
and rice, cigars and traffic exhaust, peering in the dozens of little storefronts selling zippers, leather and passementerie
to the trade, running fast in sneakers (hers) or some days clacking along on three-inch heels (also hers), seeing micros and
miniskirts mingle with yarmulkes and saris.

She also adored arriving at the grimy old factory building, handing over the dress sample from the sample pattern maker at
the Gosman office to the factory production pattern maker to “dupe.” It thrilled her to watch the massive automatic cutting
machine (which looked like giant shears) slice through many different layers of material, each layer fitting exactly on top
of another, to produce the pieces that would sew into ten duplicates of a ready-to-wear dress. It was like watching ten giant
club sandwiches being made.

Today, as she waited for the elevator in the bleak stone corridor outside the showroom, Mauve came out with Frank, one of
the senior tailors. (Because Gosman was also known for his “couture” suits, he employed two full-time tailors, plus a couple
of freelancers.) Ginny smiled, but they were stony-faced and stood one on either side of her. They started pushing and shoving
her hard, one to the other.

“Stop that.” But they didn’t stop, and Mauve said very clearly, “We’re getting tired of you, little miss smart-ass. If you
don’t want to end up getting mugged one sad night by all the ugly people out there, you better keep that trap of yours closed
tight from now on.”

“Is that a threat?” Her voice was steady, although she wasn’t.

“No, it’s a promise,” the other guy, Frank, said with a sneer.

When the red light went on to indicate the elevator’s arrival, they gripped her arms so hard, she yelped with pain. “Look
at your black-and-blues tonight, smart-ass, and know that’s nothing to what you can expect to see on your face if you keep
this up.”

The elevator was almost full, but they pushed in with her and continued the gripping routine all the way down. She was in
such a state of shock she didn’t utter a word. Although they let her go with one more shove on the avenue and watched her
rush away, she didn’t stop looking over her shoulder all the way downtown.

She was wet through with panic. She hadn’t a minute to spare, but she grabbed a cappuccino at a grimy-looking coffee shop
on the corner, trying to calm down before facing the factory production pattern maker and asking him to shrink the marker
and run up a quick dupe.

There hadn’t been any more pushing, shoving and pinching, but every time she had the misfortune to run into either goon, she
got her quota of filthy looks and muttered epithets. She didn’t need to hear them. The bruising on her arms hadn’t just been
black and blue, it had been royal purple.

She was still indispensable, but she no longer made the mistake of putting in her three cents when anyone else was in the
room. Mr. Gosman may have noticed a difference but he never said a word, and she was still frantically busy from entry to
exit, with often a twelve-hour day in between.

Only on weekends could she relax. If she wasn’t working on a super-creative design for herself, Esme, or Sophie, she loved
curling up with a bunch of
Women’s Wear Dailys,
carefully collected from Gosman’s wastepaper basket at the end of every day. She devoured them as thoroughly as her father
ever devoured Quentin Peet; and she also breezed through the magazines and social columns that Mr. G. let her borrow—
Town and Country, Avenue, New York
magazine,
Vanity Fair,
stuff like that.

Gosman put paper clips on the pages showing photographs of women wearing his clothes. There were always lots of paper clips.

There was only one pinprick in this form of recreation. The emergence of Poppy Gan as a leading member of society. “Poppy
Gan shows the flag at Bulgari’s soirée,” read a T and C caption, “wearing a clever shift from the workshop of Seventh Avenue’s
latest arrival, Jam Tollchin, a designer to watch.” Clever shift indeed! It was something Ginny knew she could make with her
eyes shut.

When it was announced that Poppy was the latest contender to be the new Guess? girl (where Alex’s pal from Dusseldorf, Claudia
Schiffer, had first made her mark), it seemed she was never out of the papers, especially
WWD,
photographed at parties, happy, carefree but, thought Ginny, still abominably dressed, despite now being seen in the company
of some of the country’s richest, most powerful men.

Women’s Wear Daily
spotlighted what Ginny called “fashion in action,” reporting through its pick of the best parties around the country what
the most fashionable were wearing. For some designers it was like receiving a brilliant review every day.

Why did Poppy’s constant appearance in the papers annoy her so much? Because she couldn’t see what it was Poppy had that was
so special? Because the words “anonymous” and “ordinary” still tolled away in her head?

It hadn’t taken long for a bitter truth to dawn: wearing her own creations, however witty and wonderful, along the grubby,
drafty Seventh Avenue corridors, was never going to get her anywhere as a designer.

She needed to be seen in
Women’s Wear Daily
herself, wearing her own designs, but how could she make that happen, with her limited social activities?

It was one of the reasons she started to seek out Lee Baker Davies. She moved in quite a few circles and seemed to regard
Ginny as her protégée, which was fine by her, except for the occasional goodnight kisses.

Ginny wished she could tell Lee about the goons at Gosman’s, but, of course, she couldn’t, because Lee would certainly tell
her best friend Everard and she would certainly end up in the emergency ward after Gosman warned the goons he knew all about
their brutality.

In any case, things were looking up. Not only was the Mauve Monster leaving Gosman, he was leaving New York City to move to
San Francisco, where, the word was, he had a fabulous new job with the Gap.

Mr. G. had implied in his usual monosyllabic way that as soon as Mauve was gone, she was to be promoted from
“gofer” to “doer,” which Ginny hoped would mean assistant designer. No mention of a raise, but one thing at a time.

Sure enough, one weekend there was a reason to celebrate. The promotion was hers, and a five-thousand-dollar raise went with
it. Lee insisted on taking Ginny out—to swanky Mr. Chow’s—along with Marilyn Binez, an artist friend. Later, they were all
invited to a party in Chelsea, where Lee swore there would be no trace of Oz Tabori or anyone like him. Alas, thought Ginny,
probably no trace of
WWD
either.

Ginny brought the subject up. “Lee, how can I get my designs in
WWD?
How can I get to some of these parties where my clothes can be seen? What are the best parties anyway?” She started to giggle
to hide her embarrassment, but hoped Lee would take her seriously.

Lee loved the question, and between sips of Chinese beer and nibbles of dim sum, outlined what should be on Ginny’s wish list
to attend. “The annual opening of the Costume Institute at the Metropolitan Museum, the opening night of the Metropolitan
Opera, the Literary Lions gala at the New York Public Library, er, the Botanical Gardens fundraiser, er…” She waved a chopstick
in the air. “Private recitals, art shows, private movie screenings given by David Brown, book parties by Tina Brown…”

“Aren’t they married?”

Lee’s thin arched eyebrows arched higher. “Of course not, Ginny. David’s married to that icon Helen Gurley Brown of
Cosmopolitan
and Tina’s married to her equal in brilliance, publisher Harry Evans.”

This was beginning to bore Ginny, but Lee was on a roll, enjoying herself, educating the hick from the sticks about who and
what mattered. She ticked off more names with her chopsticks. “Parties at Mortimer’s, owned by a genius called Glenn Bernbaum,
who attracts the best crowd with delicious food at bargain prices; anything with a sniff of a de la Renta, Buckley or, of
course, Brooke Astor presence…”

Ginny started to fidget, but Lee was oblivious, going right on. “Ginny, you should know there’s a set calendar for
women who spend and spend on clothes. From January to March your original parkas should be seen in Gstaad, St. Moritz, Vail,
or Aspen. Next, it’s all happening here, where your one-of-a-kinds should be seen at the A-list parties in New York, Washington,
and Los Angeles till June. It’s Europe from July Fourth to Labor Day—”

For a diversion Ginny knocked over a glass of water.

Lee got the message. “Okay, okay, that’s enough for now, but seriously, as I’ve been telling you for ages, you’ve got to get
out and about and be seen in your clothes.” She turned to Marilyn. “She’s a hermit.”

Marilyn, who’d been hungrily eyeing Ginny’s silver birdcage-like jacket with inside-out seams, asked, “Did you design that?”

“Of course she did,” Lee answered proudly.

“Could you make me one?” Marilyn asked nervously. “Would you like to see my paintings? Perhaps you’d like one—in exchange
for a jacket like that?”

What a spot to be in. Ginny looked around, trying to think of a tactful answer to Lee’s portly artist friend, who should never
wear the jacket, or anything like it, designed as it was for someone like herself without many curves. In that second, who
did she see coming through the restaurant door on the arm of a polished, distinctly foreign-looking potentate? None other
than Poppy Gan.

They made direct eye contact. Poppy hesitated. Ginny waved, hoping to distract Marilyn.

Poppy’s face brightened. She moved toward their table. Mr. Polished pulled her back. She whispered in his ear. Followed by
an entourage, including a couple of giants who looked like bodyguards, he went to the right, where a large gleaming table
awaited.

“Hi, I can’t believe my luck. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. You’re the girl who recommended me to Ford. Where have
you been hiding yourself… eh…” Poppy obviously couldn’t remember her name.

“Ginny Walker. Yes, I heard Ford signed you. Congratulations.” Ginny introduced her to Lee and Marilyn.

“How lovely to meet you. What a fabulous surprise, Ginny. I wanted to send you a big present, but I didn’t know where you
lived. I’ve never forgotten your sleeves. Are you a dress designer yet?”

Ginny hesitated, then, as she muttered something about working for Gosman on Seventh Avenue, Lee said smoothly, “She’s going
to be very soon.”

Poppy wasn’t listening. She squealed, “When can I see your collection? Is that gorgeous jacket you’re wearing one of yours?
Is it in the stores yet? I’d looove to get one or two—perhaps in brighter colors? Svank”—she waved her hand vaguely to the
right—“my friend, he wants me to be a fashion plate, to get on something called the best dressed list.” She giggled as she
said in a stage whisper, “He’s going into retailing or something like that… buying stores, you know.”

She was like an adorable, overexuberant puppy. Ginny had forgotten how much she’d taken to her in Ford’s waiting room. It
seemed like a hundred years ago.

Lee scribbled something on a card and gave it to Poppy. “Give Ginny a call. Here are her work and home numbers. I’m sure she
can help you.”

Ginny was flabbergasted at Lee’s pushiness. Also, looking at Poppy, she realized there was something about the way she wore
clothes that suggested she couldn’t wait to take them off. She was a beauty all right, but because her magnificent breasts
appeared to start somewhere up by her shoulder blades, even the fairly demure dress she was bursting out of tonight, all buttons
and bows, turned her into a juvenile delinquent. No wonder she was squired by so many men.

Across the room her “friend” was staring in their direction, impassive. It made Ginny uneasy, but Poppy chattered on about
how much she loved Mr. Chow’s and what had they ordered and what were the specials on the menu and how she had to be careful
not to eat too much because Chinese food slipped down so easily, she quickly got “bloated” and—
Ginny indicated that one of the giants appeared to be coming over to collect her.

Poppy shrugged, then with a quick glance over her shoulder, fluttered away with a “promise to call.”

Lee said accusingly, “You didn’t tell me you know Poppy Gan.”

“I don’t, but I intend to.”

“Do you know who she’s with?”

Ginny shook her head with cool indifference. “His name sounded familiar, but I didn’t quite get it… Shank, Swenk, something
like that.”

Lee laughed in her most annoying, patronizing way. “Now I know you’re reading too many
Women’s Wear Dailys
and not enough
New York Times.
Quentin Peet just wrote a fascinating story about him landing on the U.S. scene like a comet from outer space.” As she spoke,
Lee twisted in her seat to look again in Poppy’s direction. “I thought it was Svank, but I didn’t believe it until Poppy mentioned
his name. According to Peet he’s one of the most powerful industrialists in the world, although not much is known about his
industries. I don’t think his move into retailing has been in the papers yet. That’s really exciting. I must tell
Bazaar.
No wonder Poppy wants to please him. This could be your lucky day, Ginny.”