The Crasher (23 page)

“You help me; I’ll help you.” It was time to put into motion the deal she’d made with Poppy at Le Cirque.

“What are you, er, up to this week, Poppy?” She didn’t know how to proceed and stuttered, “Or rather, what are you supposed
to be doing this week, so we can plan to see each other. Remember, you said I might be able to go with you to—”

“Wait a sec. Let me look at the agenda. Oh, where did I put it?” Ginny heard rustling sounds. She could well imagine the chaos.
Poppy came back on the line sounding harassed. “I’m going to get Evie…” There was a pause. “No, Evie isn’t here anymore. I’ll
get someone to call you with my itinerary in a minute.”

“Could you ask her to give me a call every week or send it over?” Ginny held her breath, wondering if she’d gone too far,
but no.

“Ab-so-lutely. And then between my dates we can work out when we can see each other.” Poppy giggled. “I guess I’d better
get me some more schoolmarms; the press seems to like ’em.

Between dates? Poppy was forgetting the purpose of the plan. Who did Poppy think she was talking to? And “schoolmarms,” for
heaven’s sake!

“You promised I could go with you sometimes, to show off my clothes, remember?” She sounded sharp, but what had she got to
lose?

“Sure, sure, Ginny. I remember. Love ya.”

When Poppy hung up, Ginny went straight to her drawing board with a suit idea for Poppy in mind. As she sketched she told
herself she was a new, much more sensible Ginny Walker, no longer inhibited about not belonging, or thinking that any of the
rich-as-Croesus people, who, now she knew, often paid to go to a party, were any better than she was.

On the contrary. She’d gotten her feet wet at the Waldorf in the so-called social swim. Now she was more than ready to dive
right in the deep end. She wasn’t looking for a sugar daddy. No way. She was looking for a well-connected, well-heeled backer,
male or female, someone who would look at her clothes and know he or she could make money, lots of money, by investing in
Ms. Ginny Walker.

She told herself, if you want to be an actress, you go where the producers, the directors are: you move to Hollywood. If you
want to be a fashion designer, you go to fashionable events attended by entrepreneurs, retail magnates, powerful manufacturers,
and you stay put in New York, home of American fashion. If Poppy forgot to ask her, she’d repeat her Waldorf adventure, she’d
crash again.

With Poppy’s agenda and many major upcoming events listed in
Town and Country
every month she would be able to plan a proper campaign.

“How are you making out with Poppy and the best-dressed crusade?” Alex asked.

They were having supper on the eve of his return to Europe,
where, he’d just told her, he was now “dedicated” to the business of buying and selling fine art.

Ginny hesitated. She decided she wouldn’t tell him the ugly birthday party story—not yet, anyway. “Svank”—she couldn’t help
wrinkling her nose in distaste—“he wants her on the Best Dressed list just as she is now, with everything hanging out, but
I’m persevering.”

“Atta girl! I know you are. I saw the press coverage on that extraordinary birthday suit, if you’ll excuse the expression.
I was only sorry your name wasn’t mentioned as the designer. Why not? When are you going to stop being so retiring and get
some credit for all that hard work?”

Although so far Poppy had only asked her to a boring art exhibition—and then not turned up—she’d been true to her word about
sending her agenda.

Ginny had already had two glasses of wine, so it was easy to tell him her news, to prove to her sophisticated cousin she wasn’t
retiring at all anymore, if indeed she’d ever been.

“My dear Alex, I’m just starting to show off my designs at some of the best parties in town.”

“How so?”

“Sometimes with Poppy, sometimes without, I give the hosts the benefit of my unique solo fashion presentation.” Ginny paused,
she hoped provocatively. “Whether they’ve had the sense to invite me in the first place or not.”

“You mean you crash?”

Ginny nodded. “You could call it that. I consider it doing the host a favor.”

Alex’s sanguine face slowly opened up with a beam of approval. “Atta girl,” he said again.

Ginny suppressed the urge to giggle. Alex was such a chameleon. He always picked up the accents and words of those surrounding
him. Now, she reckoned, he must be seeing a lot of Texans.

“I think that’s smart, Ginny, providing you do it with a lot of class. I mean I hope you’re being really choosey. You only
go to—crash, that is—the parties that will do your business or
you some good, right?” He tilted up her chin, the pointy chin that had, through his obstinacy, led her into the modeling agony.
“Don’t turn into a party junkie, will you, and start trying to crash the opening of an envelope.”

Ginny laughed at the concerned look on his face. “No way. My time’s too precious.”

“Good. You’re just as smart as I always thought you were. It’s the best training in the world for your future in the Seventh
Avenue jungle and I can help you, too.” He stared at her reflectively. “If I don’t have to leave tomorrow I may have time
to tell you about some special parties coming up, parties that are not written about, receptions, fund-raisers in private
homes, where the real money is.” He sipped his wine, still studying her face. “I can take you myself and help you recognize
who’s who and who isn’t, the influential ones, what they wear, that sort of thing, you know what I mean.”

She wasn’t sure she did, but she reveled in grabbing Alex’s attention.

Before he dropped her off at the loft, he reiterated, “Don’t overdo it. You have natural poise, a great fashion talent for
looking good with just a couple of dollars, and I don’t doubt that your father’s conceit and your mother’s manners will get
you through most doors.” He chucked her under the chin again. “Just remember, stay cool under fire and whatever you do, never
lose your temper if cornered. It’s a total giveaway.”

Not long after Alex’s departure, Ginny had reason to remember his parting words of advice.

At a reception honoring Philip Miller, the czar of the Saks group, she was already late, dropping her stole as she rushed
up the stairs in an old Gosman she’d reworked with shimmering paillettes.

Retrieving it, she collided with someone rushing down. It was none other than the dreaded Mauve, the Gosman tailor.

“What are you doing here?” His eyes flicked over her dress. “In number 715, if I remember correctly?” He laughed, but from
his expression Ginny could see his feelings about her hadn’t changed.

“What a surprise,” she said lamely. “I’ll see you inside.”

“Who’re you with?”

She mumbled Poppy Gan’s name as usual, although she very much doubted Poppy would turn up. “I’m late, see you.”

When she reached the next floor she ducked inside the ladies’ room. Seeing Mauve had shaken her up. She took several deep
breaths to recover, peeping round the door to see if by any horrible chance he was lurking outside to waylay her. He wasn’t
there, but the curtains to the reception room were closed, and a large, official-looking woman blocked her path.

“Ticket, miss. The guest of honor’s speaking. You can’t go in now. You’ll have to wait. What table number? Ticket, please.”

She hadn’t been faced with this since her debacle at the Calvin Klein show so long ago. Now she was unusually flustered because
of her encounter with Mauve.

Be nice, Ginny. Be courteous. Whatever you do, Ginny, don’t be haughty or lose your temper.

She dug her nails in her hand as she said with a small smile, “Oh, sorry, I’ve been in before. I just had to go to the ladies’
room.” She looked down at the floor shyly. “That time of the month, you know.” Then, “I’m with Saks. If I don’t hear the chairman’s
speech, I’ll be in big trouble.” She bit her lip and tried to smile. “Please,” she repeated timidly, “I’m not far from the
door. I promise I won’t make any noise.”

The woman put a finger to her mouth as if to say “sshssh,” then moved the curtain slightly aside, allowing Ginny to slip in.

Regularly receiving Poppy’s agenda (although, so far, no more invitations to accompany her), in the space of only a month
Ginny discovered that what had been her liability as a wannabe model—her “facelessness,” her lack of a distinct “look”—was
a major asset when crashing.

Because of the way she dressed, because of her posture, she easily merged with the fashionable crowd; she looked vaguely familiar,
she fitted in, so crashing wasn’t anything like as difficult as she’d imagined it would be, particularly
events and benefits held in major hotels or stores, where rarely was anyone at the actual door checking names or tickets.
Instead, partygoers checked in at a desk or table often a room or corridor away for their table numbers or seat assignments.

At an Oscar de la Renta fashion show benefit, held at the Plaza Hotel, however, there was a forbidding guard at the entrance.
Ginny tried the “I’ve already been in before” line, this time to no avail.

“Over there, miss.” The guard pointed to a check-in table down the hall, where she noted a number of de la Renta-clad women
clamoring for their seat assignments.

This was infuriating. She particularly wanted to see this show and be seen, hoping at the end, perhaps, even to meet the great
man himself.

She’d made a point of knowing where all the ladies’ rooms were in the major hotels—bolt holes in times of trouble—and she
was on her way to one to plot her next move, when she saw waiters going in and out of a small door behind a screen. She quickly
looked around to see she wasn’t spotted, then darted behind the screen to follow them.

As she’d hoped, she found herself in a corridor leading to the hotel kitchen, where surely there would be another entrance,
if not several, into the ballroom itself.

“Where are you going, miss?”

A preppy young man in horn-rimmed glasses and holding an intercom stood in front of her.

“To the fashion show, sir. I work at the hotel—in marketing. I’m looking for my boss.” She sighed plaintively. “There’s such
a mob scene out there, this is a shortcut. I thought I’d use it.”

“What’s your name?”

“Ginny Walker.”

She put her hand in her new tweed purse, which looked like a small muff, so the man wouldn’t see it tremble.

His intercom beeped. He listened intently. “Okay, okay, on the double.”

He looked her up and down suspiciously, then snapped, “You should have been told, Ms. Walker, no shortcuts today. You’ll get
in big trouble. Here—” He took her by the shoulder and hustled her between two huge soup urns. “This way and don’t come back.”

She found herself exactly where she wanted to be, inside the ballroom, beside the stage. Horn-rims was staring after her.
She smiled and gave him an appreciative little wave, then rushed ahead, looking for her “boss.” After a few minutes she looked
back. Thankfully, he was gone, to deal with his “on the double” business.

She spent the next twenty minutes sauntering around the rows of little gilt chairs, being photographed in her new shiny “tweed”
skirt (actually made from nine-dollars-a-yard oilcloth, printed with a tweed design, that she’d found in a local hardware
store) and her “new” Harris tweed jacket, remodeled, after being purloined by her mother from her father’s wardrobe. An act
of revenge, Ginny was sure, as right after Labor Day her mother had once again pulled up stakes and followed her father to
Miami, where he was “opening the first branch of the new Walker School.”

Across the runway, in the front row, Ginny saw to her surprise the beautiful Dolores Relato Peet. She knew her name now, a
name she might not be using for much longer, because in Suzy’s column only the night before, she’d read a Suzy scoop: the
Peets were getting “an amicable divorce.” Whatever that meant.

Certainly, from the look of her today, it meant Dolores wasn’t grieving. Animated, laughing, throwing her elegant head back
so that a cloud of dark hair continually brushed her shoulders, Dolores appeared ecstatic.

How could a woman whose divorce had just been announced show off so soon in public her happiness, her relief? It was such
a slap in the face to her about-to-be-ex-husband. Or perhaps that was what an “amicable divorce” was all about? Perhaps Mr.
Peet junior, who she read from time to time in
Next!
magazine, was somewhere at this moment having
an equally good time? Ginny felt hopelessly naive. What did she know? Only that Dolores was wearing a suit she’d give her
all for, in broadtail, the delicate, incredibly expensive fur from baby lambs which looked and felt like silk.

With the Peets in and out of her mind, it was only when the de la Renta show was over (seen from a fourth-row seat marked
“guest”) that Ginny learned what hot water she could have been in.

When the lights went up came an announcement which stunned her: “Will everyone kindly remain in their seats until the First
Lady has left the ballroom.” Ginny hadn’t even known that Hillary Clinton was in the packed audience. Thank goodness horn-rim’s
intercom had gone off. He must have been a Secret Service agent.

Dolores had been at the Waldorf and now at the Plaza. Ginny decided she had to be her lucky omen, for at both places she’d
gotten away with murder.

Murder, it had to have been murder, Johnny thought, although the Los Angeles police still persisted in calling it a tragic
accident

Why didn’t someone challenge the police? Why didn’t someone remind the world that Rosemary Abbott had been risking her life
for years, working as Rosa Brueckner for the Drug Enforcement Administration? Why didn’t someone in the DEA admit the enemy
had obviously decided they were tired of having her around?

Her husband, her parents—they were professionals, used to sudden death, but for Godsakes, this was their own beloved wife
and daughter, who’d burned to a cinder in her own home. They couldn’t have swallowed the electrical fault story? And yet ever
since he’d first heard about Rosemary’s gruesome death, there hadn’t been one word about foul play, not even in
Time
magazine, which had broken her story back in ‘93.