The Crasher (21 page)

The phone rang. Poppy? Low-wattage optimism spluttered out when she heard Alex’s voice. “Something must have come up,” was
his way of cheering her up. “Don’t for God’s sake hold it against her.”

“Don’t hold it against her!” Even though he couldn’t see her, it made Ginny feel better to wrench the red silk suit off the
hanger and hurl it across the room. “If I ever see her again I’m going to show her just how much I hold it against her.”

The day before the dinner, with still no word from Poppy, Ginny’s depression turned into a white hot anger that tightened
her mouth—and her backbone. She didn’t deserve this.

No Poppy. No invitation. Okay. Fuck Poppy. Fuck fancy invitations. She would go to the dinner without either and she would
wear the red silk tuxedo herself. If by any remarkable chance Poppy happened to be there, she would march up to her and publicly
announce what she thought of her manners, her character, her zero chance of ever being well dressed, let alone best dressed.

What was one of Alex’s famous dictums? “Aim high; get higher; even hired.”

What had she got to lose? Nothing; and perhaps if she could get to Svank and show off what she knew was a brilliant piece
of work, he might agree to discuss real business with her later. So she was whistling Dixie; there was no way she could stay
home and do nothing on the evening when the leading citizens of New York were to be honored.

Ginny spent the day remodeling the suit to fit her willowy, noncurvaceous figure, well aware it would have suited Poppy better,
but from a fashion point of view, it was still something to be proud of.

In Chronicles, the so-called gossip column of the
New York Times,
she read that the Waldorf dinner would start with cocktails
at seven, dinner in the Grand Ballroom at eight. Twelve “leading citizens” were to be honored, including the “giant industrialist,
known only by one name, Svank, who has already been so good to New York City in the short time he has been here.”

Lee called in the afternoon to see if she’d heard from Poppy. “Nope, but it doesn’t matter. I’m wearing the dress myself.”

“What d’you mean?”

“I mean I’m going to the dinner in the most spectacular design you’ve ever seen.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

“Alone? You mean that award dinner? Were you invited, too? I don’t get it.”

“No, I haven’t been invited, but I’m going.”

“You mean you’re going to crash?” Lee sounded as if Ginny had told her she was about to go to the moon.

“Yep.”

“You’ll never get in. You’ll be turned away, humiliated. Oh, Ginny, don’t do it, don’t crash. It isn’t worth it. Keep the
dress for another time, please! It’s a seated dinner, for goodness’ sake. Where d’you think you’re going to sit? You’ll hear
from Poppy one of these days. Please, Ginny, you’ll make a fool of yourself; you’ll never get in.”

“There are a thousand ways to get in. Don’t worry so much, Lee. You sound like Sophie Formere. There are always no-shows at
this kind of thing.” Ginny couldn’t believe how breezy and confident she sounded, but before Lee could scuttle her resolve,
she put the phone down. It rang twice again, but she ignored it.

Between five-thirty and six-thirty she changed her mind a dozen times about going; put the suit on, took it off, put it on
again; combed her hair severely back, backcombed it forward, adding a brilliant red ribbon.

When the phone rang at six fifty-five she rushed to answer it, sure it had to be Poppy, apologizing profusely, saying a
ticket had been left at the door. Even hearing static on the line didn’t prepare her for Ricardo’s voice, warm and throbbing
down the line. “Hel-lo, Gin-ny.
Come esta?”

It was all too much. As if a demon had arrived in the room, she slammed the phone down, grabbed her bag, and without looking
in the mirror again, rushed downstairs.

It was diving off the top board; it was facing all the Paul Robespiers, the Annie Jourdans of
Elle
magazine, the Katie Fords of the world rolled into one. She hailed a cab. It was bumper-to-bumper all the way uptown.

By the time she neared the hotel, she knew she couldn’t go in without a drink. She went into the Waldorf’s Lexington Avenue
entrance where there was a bar, the Bull and Bear. With her eyes shut, she threw down a vodka martini.

Somehow it had gotten to be seven forty-five. It was now or never.

The escalator going up to the ballroom floor was packed with people, couples, men in black tie, women in every kind of dress,
mini, micro, calf, long, half and half, not many trousers, and no one as chic as she. Despite the crowd, she had never felt
more alone. There was a crush around a long table in the hall. Seat assignments? There was no reason for her to go there;
she didn’t have a seat.

Swept along on a perfumed tide, she concentrated on looking over shoulders, into space, as if looking for someone, a tardy
escort, a lover, a husband. She tried to keep a half smile on her face, to show she really wasn’t worried. She was ready with
the words, if she were to be apprehended: “I am Poppy Gan’s guest. She was supposed to meet me here with my ticket, but”—confiding
laugh—“she’s always late, you know. Please just show me to her table.”

Nobody stopped her. Nobody was showing a ticket. All around her she heard, “What’s our table number, darling?” “Thirty-six
… eleven… can’t remember… I think it’s fifteen…”

The lights were going up and down in the foyer, a ringing gong began, summoning the pushing, shoving crowd, as thick
as any encountered on the subway. Her story about the ticket Ms. Gan had left for her was trembling on her lips, but she was
inside the ballroom before she knew it, with no one checking names or tickets.

The ballroom seemed much darker than the foyer, flickering for as far as she could see with tiny votive candles, surrounding
soaring vases of arum lilies on every table. A crewcut in a tux was at the mike on stage, begging the crowd to behave, to
find their seats, take their places and sit down so the evening could begin. He looked vaguely familiar, but she was too nervous
to stare to see if he really was Tom Brokaw. She was inside, but now where should she go?

There was a spectacularly beautiful woman with the whitest skin she’d ever seen, staring at the stage. There was something
familiar about her, too; perhaps she was a movie star, more likely a ballerina; that’s what she looked like. For some ridiculous
reason Ginny felt she’d met her, but couldn’t remember where or when. Perhaps she’d seen her picture in the papers. The man
beside her was trying in vain to attract her attention, but she ignored him. If only she could be with a man like that.

With a fast intake of breath, not far away Ginny spotted Poppy in the same Lana Turner white satin sheath she’d worn to the
DIFFA evening. Her fear was replaced with fury. She didn’t care what happened now. This was the moment for a major confrontation.

Grimly she pressed through the tightly packed throng. It was like a jungle, but she would fight her way through. “Mr. Livingstone,
I presume.” Justice would be done.

As the lights dimmed still further and she paused to get her bearings, a large couple barged by, literally knocking her off
her feet into a chair. As the man turned briefly to apologize, Ginny waved her hand to absolve him of blame. She sat upright,
as stiff as a poker, too terrified to move, staring at the stage without seeing anything. Now, Tom Brokaw—she was sure it
was he—was banging on the podium for silence.

All around her a buzz buzz buzz of conversation continued.
The lights went up a watt. She moved surreptitiously back in the chair and looked around. Now she couldn’t see Poppy at all.

There were two other empty places at the table, one next to her. As a waiter started to pour wine, a man with a five o’clock
shadow and a carnation in his buttonhole slid into the chair beside her.

“Arthur St—” As he held out his hand, his name was lost in a screech of laughter from the next table. Despite the threats
and demands for silence still coming from the podium, to Ginny’s amazement, no one took any notice. She began to relax a fraction,
noting that opposite her was an older woman with a kind expression, and too much blue in her white hair. She was wearing,
Ginny was sure, a Gosman copy of a feathery Lacroix. The realization made her want to sob like a homesick child. Instead,
as the woman complimented her on her “stunning suit—whoseisit?” she heard herself say coolly, “Virginia Walker.”

“Virginia Walker? Is that a British designer or someone from Hong Kong? It’s so smart, I love it. Did you get it here?”

“Oh, thank you, well, yes, I did. No, it isn’t British. It’s mine. I mean I am Virginia Walker. I designed it myself. I am,
well, actually I am a designer, Virginia Walker.”

As Ginny stuttered on, there was a roll of drums, and for the first time she registered that there was a dais on the stage.
With only a slight letup in the din, the New York citizens to be honored started to file in alphabetically as the man at the
mike—too unsophisticated to be Tom Brokaw, Ginny decided—yelled out their names, including that of Quentin Peet. How her father
would have loved to be here. She quickly blocked the thought of his disapproving face from her mind.

With ninety percent of her concentration on the other empty seat, wondering when the knell of doom would come with the missing
couple’s arrival at the table, Ginny was too nervous to look to see what her father’s idol looked like in the flesh. At the
table near the stage she could see white skin and her attentive escort applauding wildly. Of course, that was who she was,
the beauty she’d seen at Doubles, the stunning
woman Alex had told her was married to Peet’s son, although she’d been busy in a dark corner with somebody else. Was she with
her husband, Peet’s son, tonight?

She forgot all about it as Svank’s name was called and he strode in to take his place on the dais. Ginny only gave him a second’s
attention. Was she imagining things? Wasn’t that Poppy calling out “hip hip hooray”? She strained her head over the packed
ballroom, but couldn’t tell where the cheer was coming from.

As the first course arrived at the table—something pale sitting on a tuft of lettuce—introductions were made. It didn’t matter
what was served; she was far too nervous to eat. The names all ran together in her head, Steve Bottomley, a banker, his wife,
Lucille, who joined the Gosman-clad lady in praising Ginny’s “boo-ti-ful trouser suit.”

After ten minutes’ chitchat with an advertising man on her left, the man who’d scooted into the chair on her right, Arthur-with-the-five-o’clock-shadow,
said with a leer, “Who’re you with, Ms. Virginia? You haven’t been stood up, have you? Not a delicious lady like you?”

Ginny nervously giggled along with him. “Not a chance, alas. He’s bound to get here sooner or later.”

“Who?”

“You’ll see…” By the time the main course arrived (as far as Ginny could see, a larger helping of the first bland offering,
decorated with technicolored carrots and peas), her relief at having so far gone undetected as an interloper was tempered
by having to deal with Arthur, who obviously thought he was a dreamboat who could get away with anything.

He told her that he was Arthur Stern, an extremely successful textile manufacturer, who’d been honored himself at the same
event a couple of years before. Her wavering attention span straightened up when he told her he liked to diversify. “Guess
what my latest venture is?”

“I can’t imagine,” she said coyly, wondering how to turn the conversation to her business aspirations.

“I’m the nation’s leading manufacturer of teddy bears,” he said with a wink.

She smiled weakly as he went on, “I like your point of view.”

Startled, she began to ask, “Which point of—”

“This one.” Openly ogling, he stroked her knee through the righthand slit of her Chinese red silk trousers.

As she flinched, he removed his hand. “I’m interested in new businesses. As I told you, I like diversifying…”

“Into what?”

“How about from teddy bears to teddies,” he smirked. “What could be more natural.” Again his hand touched her thigh. “You’re
a new face in town, aren’t you? Where’s your business located?”

“I’ve… I’ve just begun. I’m looking for premises.”

“This could be your lucky night. Come on now, come clean. Are you really waiting for someone? Who’re you with? Who’s coming
to take you home?”

What could she say to keep him interested in her business and take his mind off her? “I’m a guest of…” In for a penny, in
for a pound. “Mr. Svank.”

“Hmmm. I’m not surprised. Well, it’s your lucky night,” he repeated.

There were shushes all around as the man at the mike introduced the evening’s star mistress of ceremonies, Barbara Walters.
The teddy bear manufacturer slung an arm around the back of her chair. She wanted to turn her back on him, but in another
way, knew that his familiarity made her look as if she belonged at the table.

As the evening’s business swung into action with everyone on the dais receiving an accolade and an award, once again Ginny
felt her leg being stroked. She didn’t know what to do. If she left for the ladies’ room she’d never have the confidence to
come back, and who knew if Mr. Teddy Bear with the evil leer wouldn’t follow her. As she was wrestling with her next move,
he whispered, “Why don’t we split and go to your place to discuss a little teddy business?”

If only that was all he wanted to discuss. She could design teddies. She could design anything. What she didn’t know was how
to deal with men who had designs on her.

As she floundered, the lights went up, and like a gift from God she looked around to see Poppy approaching. She stood up and
so did her dinner partner, placing a paw on her shoulder.

Although an hour ago Ginny had wanted only to tell Poppy what she thought of her poor manners, now she was longing for her
help to extricate herself.

There had to be something in her expression that Poppy recognized only too well, Poppy who surely knew all about lecherous
advances.