The Crasher

by Shirley Lord

  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.”

  She was thinking the same thing. There was a lot she could do to help Poppy. For a start, she could streamline her spectacular curves. Obviously this was something this particular “friend”—Svank, now she remembered his name from business school—wanted, a
nd she couldn’t say she blamed him. Poppy ought to be kept under wraps for her own good.

  In return, Poppy could help her get invited to at least some of the social stuff they’d just been discussing. Her imagination was working overtime. They could both show off her clothes. WWD, here I come, Ginny thought excitedly.

  Before they left Lee said, “Don’t you think you should get Poppy’s number? In case she doesn’t call?”

  There was something off-putting about Poppy’s table. “Don’t worry, she’ll call.”

  “She may not.” Lee stalked over to Poppy. Ginny could see her hand Poppy her card. In a few seconds she was back, looking annoyed. “They weren’t very friendly. One of the goons just said, ‘She’s in the book,’ but I don’t believe it.”

  “What did Poppy say?”

  “She didn’t; she looked distinctly nervous to me.”

  “Well, she’ll call.”

  Ginny was flying, an almost forgotten adrenaline pumping through her. She hadn’t been at the party in Chelsea for more than a few minutes when she was introduced to Ricardo Vicarno, an artist from Milan, in New York for the first American exhibition of his work.

  They shook hands for the longest time; they couldn’t stop looking at each other. His eyes are the same color as mine, Ginny thought; no, darker, really dark green-brown.

  Although they sat and stood and sat again, she didn’t concentrate on what they talked about so animatedly for more than an hour. His work, her work, New York, Milan, mountains, shadows, swimming in cool lakes. Lots of words, but more meaningful, lots of silences.

  Lee came by to say she wanted to go home and so did Marilyn. She hovered, obviously unhappy that Ginny was not going to leave with them. Ginny walked them to the door with Ricardo, his arm around her waist.

  “Can I get you a taxi?” he asked, with Marcello Mastroianni charm.

  “They have a car, a Big Apple,” Ginny said too quickly. She couldn’t wait for them to go.

  For some ridiculous reason Lee cried out angrily, “Don’t forget Poppy’s going to call.”

  Poppy? Was it possible she’d already forgotten about Poppy, and her bold plan for the future? Yes, it was possible. She’d forgotten everything.

  The lights dimmed and people started dancing to Latin music. Ricardo moved close, closer toward her. She didn’t want to hear the music; she buried her head in his shoulder; she didn’t want to see; she closed her eyes. She only wanted to be aware of the slight roughness of his chin on her cheek when she lifted her head, the faint aroma of cologne as he moved his arms tighter around her and the giddy, mind-bending sensation of sexual arousal as he suddenly kissed her hair.

  They stopped dancing and stood, their arms around each other, looking out at the empty street. Somebody jostled them and a glass of red wine spilled on her priceless jacket. She didn’t say a word or feel a thing. No rage, no sorrow, only a sense of diving off the high board as, hand in hand, they went to find a bathroom and found a bedroom instead.

  There was no need for words, no need to fear not knowing what to do. She just thanked God there was a key in the door, a key Ricardo turned in the lock.

  She noticed his hands. They were the way artists’ hands should be, fine, slender. He slipped her jacket from her shoulders. She wasn’t wearing a bra; she rarely needed to wear a bra. He looked at her with such wonder, for the first time she was proud of her body and not her clothes.

  He cupped her small breasts, pushing them up toward him. He bent his head of thick dark hair down to kiss and then deeply suck her nipples. She was weak; she was totally gone, open, wet, longing for him. So this was what being in love meant.

  Oh, please, Ricardo, now. I don’t want to wait any longer.

  He lay her down on the bed and began to kiss her, her face, her ears, her neck. His fingers were cool and strong; he searched for and found her response.

  It was the most beautiful night of her life.

  When Ginny woke she was alone in a strange bed in a foreign, bare, bleak room with not a fringe in sight. She could still feel Ricardo’s hands. She ached, she didn’t know how, but yes, it was a physical ache to feel them again. She wanted him. Cheap love songs about want and need and longing played through her mind. She felt so lonely, she couldn’t move. She wanted to weep and moan into the pillow. Where was he?

  The door opened and Ricardo came in, laughing like a boy, although now she could see gray streaks in his hair, fine lines on his amazing patrician face. He was carrying her jacket.

  “Sleepyhead, your jacket is ready. I cleaned it at my studio. Put it on. Now I want to take you there.” His Italian accent made every word sound poetic.

  It was incredible. There was no trace of red wine, but she didn’t want to put her jacket on; she didn’t want to put on anything. She wanted to put off getting dressed for as long as she could. She wanted him back in bed with her now, this instant.

  She pouted. She held out her arms, but he only laughed again. “They want the room, cara. Let’s go home to my place.”

  It was shameful. She could hardly walk along the street, she was longing so much for what had gone before and what she knew was only minutes away.

  It was a perfect winter day, cool but not cold, with a brilliantly blue sky and valleys of golden sunshine, a time when she usually loved to walk everywhere, but feeling the way she did, this walk was too long and Ricardo made it longer. Every so often he stopped to swing her around or lift her high into the air like a child.

  He had rented a big loft in Chelsea. It reminded her of one of her favorite advertisements—for a man’s fragrance, a Spanish one by Paco Rabanne, where a gorgeous bare-chested man was on the phone, sitting in a studio on a rumpled but pristine white bed, obviously talking to the girl who’d just left it.

  There was a smell of turpentine, cologne, coffee and expensive cigars; piles of canvases; sweaters, pants, belts hanging topsy-turvy all over the place.

  Ginny sat demurely on the bed, forcing herself to smile. He stood over her, powerful, wonderfully powerful; he held her head between his hands and slowly brought her tight against his jeans.

  It began again, the delirious ascent, descent, ascent, descent into a world she’d never known. Thank God, she’d taken Esme’s advice and months ago started on the pill “in case” one night “it” happened.

  Around four in the afternoon the phone rang and her gorgeous bare-chested, bare-everything man picked it up with his girl still in the tousled bed. He spoke in rapid Italian, but Ginny still caught cara every so often. Perhaps she caught it because after the first few minutes he stopped stroking her hair, her breasts, which he had told her over and over were like delicate exquisite flowering buds.

  The phone call went on and on. It doused her senses like cold water. She didn’t want to leave, but she got up and slowly dressed in last night’s fancy clothes, waiting every second for him to stop talking and rush over to bring her back to his side. He was so engrossed, he didn’t even seem aware she was still there.

  She crossed the room and went to the door. She opened it and, without leaving, banged it noisily shut. Her hatred for the person on the other end of the wire was frightening. Ricardo looked up, still speaking, but he still didn’t seem aware of her. He was upset about something, someone?

  With a painful lump in her throat she walked out, sure he would follow her. Perhaps he was talking to his mother, perhaps she was ill; then she remembered he’d told her the evening before he’d lost both his parents in a car crash. At one moment she had nearly asked him if he was married, but the moment had passed and she hadn’t wanted to break the magic spell.

  She played a game with herself. If there was a cab cruising by when she reached the street, she would take it. If there wasn’t, she’d go back up the stairs and wrest the phone away and kiss him passionately. Of course, a cab was cruising by. Like a sleepwalker she got in. By the time she neared Sophie’s, she knew she had to start looking for a place of her own. It was bad enough taking a broken heart h
ome; taking it to somebody else’s home was impossible.

  A vivid blonde was waiting at a stoplight. She reminded her of Poppy. It was hard to believe she could forget her plans for Poppy Gan, forget about dressing her to improve her fashion image, as in turn Poppy helped promote her clothes. It was unimportant now.

  The next day, with no word from Ricardo, she called in sick, pretending to Sophie that she had stomach flu. In a way she did. Her stomach was violently upset—until one o’clock, when a bunch of dark velvety violets arrived with a card, which said only, “Will you…” By six o’clock she had received four more bunches, each with a card carrying only a few words. She laid them out on the coffee table. “Will you… have dinner with … me tomorrow night?… love Ricardo… call 808-3592.”

  In Sophie’s hall mirror as she dialed the number she saw her face. It was glowing, full of anticipation.

  So began eight weeks of a roller coaster life, soaring to the sky, descending to the bottom of the earth. “It’s that elevator feeling,” said Esme, with all the wisdom of her relationship with Ted. “There’s nothing to beat it.” That was for sure. On the rare days when there were no calls, she crashed down to the depths, certain he was never going to call again.

  He was evasive on the subject of other relationships, only saying he had once been married and was very attached to his two sons, who lived with their mother. There had been other calls while she was in the loft. She didn’t leave. She waited, however long they took, and Ricardo always had a lot to talk about. “Business,” he would invariably say when finally he put the phone down.

  “Monkey business?” she once teased. He didn’t like it. She spent the rest of the day trying to cajole him out of a foul black mood. There were others equally black, but soon forgotten in bed, when he blamed his moodiness on the pressure of getting ready for his exhibition.

  She was exhausted, living between his calls and their dates, on the edge of her emotions. She even fell asleep a couple of times at the office.