The Crasher (42 page)

“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?

“Which room are you in for dinner?” Oz asked.

She’d forgotten about the envelope in her purse. She didn’t dare take it out with Oz there. “I’m not sure…”

To her relief Oz wasn’t listening. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I have to check with Lili Root where some of my Lions are sitting.
I’ll get your table from her and catch up with you later. Hey, hold that look, you look cute.” He raised his camera. “Stay
like that.”

So relieved he was going, Ginny posed as he took a few shots. Then he went off in search of the seating plan. Ginny started
to cross the room. The circle of Peet admirers had disappeared, for good reason. Quentin Peet was no longer there; neither
was Johnny.

“Delivered your message?” As Stern asked the question, a gong echoed through the room. He didn’t wait for her answer. “That’s
only the first bell… it will be a good twenty minutes before people start going in to dinner. Where’re you sitting?”

There was nothing for it, but to open the sealed envelope. “Berg Collection, Table Fourteen.”

“My bad luck,” Stern said. She was partly disappointed,
partly relieved, because she had no idea whose envelope she was holding.

“Mine, too.” What a disaster the evening was turning out to be, but perhaps she could spend at least some of the twenty minutes
he’d mentioned, arranging another appointment with him later. “Have we time to talk now?”

“Absolutely, Madame Designer. But not here.” He had a point. The noise was deafening, but there was also that leer she didn’t
like, the one she remembered from the Waldorf.

Don’t overreact, she told herself. Remember Becky Corey and all the other Coreys the Sterns have helped. All of them must
have had to deal with Arthur Stern’s flirting at one time or another. Now it’s your chance. Perhaps she could show him her
extraordinary cloak.

“I tell you what,” he was saying, “let’s go for a few minutes in the direction of the main reading room. There’s a quiet spot
where you can tell me about yourself, then I’ll steer you to the Berg Collection…”

As he escorted her out, Ginny looked around anxiously again for Johnny or his father. If she’d seen either of them she’d have
changed her mind about accompanying Stern, but they were nowhere to be seen.

To her alarm Stern steered her into the elevator. As the doors closed he boasted, “I wish I could show you the rare fifteenth-century
manuscript my family has just donated to the library… but I can’t. It’s under lock and key, where I’d like to put you, pretty
one.”

Ignore it, Ginny told herself, and any other innuendo. As for the rare manuscript, it was more likely to be from his wife’s
family than from his.

She still smiled as sweetly as she could and he took her arm as the elevator stopped and they emerged in a lofty, badly lit
hall.

“Where are we?”

“On the way, on the way. Don’t worry, I know where I’m going.” He stumbled and Ginny realized for the first time that Stern
was loaded.

“So, Madame Designer, did you make that pretty dress you’re wearing, or should I say not wearing?”

“My name’s Ginny Walker, Mr. Stern. Yes, I did… it’s from my latest collection and I’d love to show you…” She paused as he
ran his hand over her bare shoulder, threading his fingers through one of the silk straps.

As they took a few steps, Ginny became acclimated to the dim light, and saw to her relief they were not alone. At the far
end of the long hall two men seemed to be arguing, one man tall, slim, dark, gesticulating wildly to the other who was much
shorter, his face hidden in shadow.

There was something familiar about the tall man, something terribly familiar about the way he moved, his posture… it couldn’t
possibly be and yet… Ginny forgot about Stern, forgot about everything. “Alex?” She thought she was shouting, but the name
came out in a nervous whisper. She tried again, louder but not much, “Alex, is that you?” She started forward, her breath
coming in gasps.

“Not so fast, young lady.” Stern used the silk strap to pull her back, then pushed her so violently into an alcove that she
knocked her head sharply against the stone wall. As the strap snapped, Stern’s knee pinioned her to the wall, and he became
wild, ripping open her décolletage, covering her mouth with his, his hands everywhere. She didn’t stand a chance. He was as
strong as an ox and he didn’t waste any time, unzipping his fly, yanking the blush dress farther down her body.

Dazed, in shock, unable to scream, Ginny was almost down on the floor, when there was a violent crash. Stern sprang back,
releasing his hold. As she let out a piercing scream, it was joined by another from somebody else and both she and Stern turned
to see the two men fiercely fighting. A gunshot echoed through the hall. In disbelief she and Stern watched as the two men
grappled over the balustrade and one man pushed the other over, to smash on the floor below.

It all happened in seconds. Ginny saw the tall, slim man run and disappear from view. Clutching her torn silk dress around
her, she struggled to her feet, sure Stern was still about to rape
her; but he, disheveled, his trousers agape, seemed befuddled, leaning against the balustrade to stare down below.