Authors: Shirley Lord
His face slowly flushed a deep, unbecoming red. She said her prayers, knowing there was no one in the building at night, sure
her end was about to come. Instead he stood up, bowed like a Japanese dignitary, and left.
Ginny quickly locked the door and went to the window. After what seemed an interminable time, she saw him come out and the
Mercedes slowly drive away.
Two days later he called with profuse apologies. He called three more times before she relented and agreed to meet him—for
dinner at La Grenouille, a restaurant she’d always wanted to visit.
She sat poker-faced, well into the second course, when Tony made a confession.
“I’m an alcoholic, Ginny. Even a sniff of the stuff turns me into an animal. Don’t let me near it and we’ll never have a problem.”
She looked suspiciously at his glass. It was true, he’d ordered Perrier for himself, white wine for her.
“Okay, now let’s talk about your business.”
She started to, but it was hopeless. He interrupted, meandered around the subjects of his ex-wife, his ex-mistress and how
greedy women could be when love was out the door. “Look at poor Johnny Peet…”
She didn’t want to hear a word about poor Johnny Peet. It was time for poor Ginny Walker.
Except for an attempted foray under her skirt in the Mercedes going back to the loft, there were no more passes, and when
Tony gave her his business card, Ginny decided it was all going to be worthwhile after all. “Best come to the office. As I
told you, I do like to back the occasional wild card. Come up and we’ll get into margins.”
She called him three times to set up the meeting. Twice he was out of town, once “unavailable.”
“Che sarà, sarà,” she said with a sad smile, telling Esme the story over dim sum one rainy day in Chinatown.
Esme had her own troubles, seeking Ginny’s advice on how to pin down an irresolute fiancé and set a wedding date sometime
in ‘95.
“I know he loves me, but he’s sooo busy,” she moaned. “He just hasn’t got time to sit down and work it all out with me.”
“Too busy counting his millions.” Ginny tried to laugh, but it wasn’t funny. Despite Esme’s many attempts to help, although
Ted was always talking about how rich he was, Ginny had never been able to talk him into giving her a loan.
When Esme frowned, Ginny put her arm around her. “Cheer up. You said yourself Ted loves you. Men are lazy. Why don’t you choose
a date yourself, something you know won’t screw up his itinerary. Are you friendly with his secretary?”
“Absolutely. I made sure of it.”
“Well, then, collaborate with her. Find out what, if anything, he has planned for ‘95, then work the wedding date in somehow…
I’m sure he just doesn’t want to be bothered with the details.”
Esme beamed. “You really think so? Oh, Ginny, that’s a marvelous idea. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Because you’re a shy shrinking violet, I don’t think.”
Esme smiled. “Okay, now let’s plot something for you. Where shall we start?”
Ginny sighed. “I’m trying to keep my spirits up, Es, but my
luck’s getting worse, not better. Whenever an appointment seems to be leading somewhere, it ends in a race around the desk
or some heavy trying to get me into bed.”
“I’m not surprised, Ginny. You’re looking gorgeous and so skinny.”
Ginny was too proud to tell her best friend that she used what little money she had to spare to buy fabric, not food, that
with the Gosman severance pay almost gone, along with the two thousand dollars Poppy had given her for the two dresses, she
often relied on crashing to provide her main meal.
There was something else new about her crashing. She hadn’t, as Alex had feared, turned into a crashing junkie. She was still
selective, but she no longer crashed just to show off her clothes (or to eat). She’d grown to love crashing for other, more
complex reasons.
She loved the rush of adrenaline it delivered as she mingled with the “in” crowd. She felt a sense of triumph, chatting up
potential investors at night, the same people who promised but never returned her phone calls during the day. She was vaguely
familiar to some of the security guards now and some PR party people, who acknowledged her with a smile or a wave.
In some convoluted way crashing had become her act of revenge to everyone who let her down, to the smooth strangers who wanted
more, much more, than her designing talent, as a return on their investment.
Not that she’d dream of telling Esme she’d turned crashing into a major occupation. Esme thought it was a fun thing she did
sometimes—rarely—on the spur of the moment. Ginny knew Esme didn’t approve of that, either.
“I thought you were making clothes regularly for Poppy Gan?” Esme asked now.
“She talks about getting a ‘real wardrobe,’ but she’s as impossible to pin down as ever.”
“Well as soon as we—I—set the date,” Esme started to giggle, “you’re going to be too busy to do anything for Ms. Gan. I’ll
need you full-time to design my dress, my trousseau, the
bridesmaids’ dresses… yours, of course, and one for Ted’s sister, Carol, and my cousin Sue Jane.”
As they watched the rain turn into sleet outside the window on Mott Street, they ordered rice wine and more dim sum. Esme
always made Ginny feel optimistic, and the feeling stayed with her until she got back to the loft.
It was really sleeting the evening she planned to crash a party at New York’s Guggenheim Museum. She was already dressed in
a lilac-colored diaphanous sheath made from delicate embroidered material Lee had brought back from a trip to India as an
early birthday present. She was tired after helping Lee style a shoot that day. Should she go? Shouldn’t she go? She started
to play a game with herself. If the phone rang before seven
P.M.
—whoever it was—she’d go. If not, she’d put the dress away, give herself a bubble bath and go to bed early. But it wasn’t
the phone that rang; it was the intercom from the front door.
“Hello?”
“Ginny Walker?” She didn’t recognize the accent.
“Yes.”
“I’m Angus Tollmach, a friend of Alex. He called you, didn’t he?”
“Nooo,” she said slowly. “He didn’t.”
“Oh, shit… sorry, Ginny, but your cousin promised…”
Ginny decided as he knew Alex was her cousin, he was probably bona fide. “I’ll let you in, but I’m actually on the way out.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’m in a rush myself, but I’ve got something for you. If you could buzz me in and come down for it soon,
I’ll leave it just inside, okay?”
She was ashamed of her suspicions, but after Tony, she was wary of letting any strangers in. “Oh, please come up for a quick
drink…” She pressed the front-door buzzer.
The phone started to ring. She looked at the time. It was well before seven. “Just a minute…”
It was Alex. “Alex, Angus is downstairs. Hold on.” She put
the phone down and hollered down the intercom. “Come on up, Angus. Alex is on the line.”
“No, tell him I’ve done my bit. The package is in the hall.”
Alex said excitedly, “Go down and get it, Ginny. I’ll call back in five minutes.”
She ran down the flights and retrieved a small box. She had only just opened it when Alex called again.
“Do you like it?”
“Like it! I adore it.”
“It” was a gold bracelet, heavy with gold petals, decorated with, she supposed, sparkling rhinestones.
“It’s entailed, Ginny darling.”
“What on earth does that mean?”
“You can wear it as much as you like, but you can never own it. It has to be passed on to future generations.”
“But I don’t have any future…”
As usual Alex wasn’t listening. “Half the good stuff you see on the dolly birds, including your friend Poppy, is entailed,
although they never know it. I’ll need to borrow it back sometime, but meanwhile take care of it for me. It will look great
on your skinny arm. What are you up to?”
She looked at the time again. Six thirty-five. “I think I’m going to the Guggenheim Museum—to a reception and a dinner. Where
are you?”
Alex cut right across her. “Wear it tonight with joy, Ginny dear. I have a feeling it’s your lucky night.”
“Where are you?”
“On my way back to New York.” He sounded more serious than usual. “And Gin…”
“Yes?”
“You were right to be wary of Svank. Now I know him quite well. He’s greedy, dangerous—”
“Oh, Alex. Do be careful.” In a rush she told him the Poppy birthday story.
There was silence, then, “Don’t worry, pigeon. If you have something he wants, he’s still very much someone to know.”
By the time she put the phone down it was ten past seven. It was now or never. Okay. Now.
The bracelet lit up her pale skin. She felt a surge of confidence. Perhaps tonight would be the night her luck changed.
There was that kooky girl, gate-crashing again, well, not so kooky, quite cute really. What trouble was she talking herself
out of this time? Or, for once, perhaps into trouble.
Standing inside the garlanded circular entrance hall of the Guggenheim Museum, smoking a frowned-upon cigarette, Johnny Peet
watched with cynical amusement as the skinny swan, draped in veils of lilac, at first coolly and then more heatedly argued
with an overbearing dowager holding a list, obviously the keeper of the gate.
The more he observed, the more he remembered the girl, mainly because of her outlandish, extraordinary clothes and… what was
the other reason? It came to him in a flash. She was the girl who’d worn what he’d described as “the two-faced dress” in one
of his columns. In a way he couldn’t begin to fathom, she was the girl who still in some way reminded him of Dolores. But
what exactly was behind her modus operandi?
From the dowager’s sour expression he saw the girl wasn’t getting very far. There was something he glimpsed for a second on
her face, a scared, lost look that struck a chord. There could be a story here.
Without thinking it through, Johnny strolled over. “I wondered where on earth you’d got to,” he scowled as he approached.
He tucked her arm through his (not surprised to feel it tremble). “You said you’d only be a second, but as usual…” he exchanged
another scowl with the dowager, “as usual you’re about to miss the first course. I’m ravenous, even if you aren’t.”
The girl shot him a furtive look that mingled astonishment with gratitude, but without missing a beat she smiled sweetly at
the lady with the list. “I’m sorry to have been such a nuisance, but I did tell you I’d been in before. Sorry to have troubled
you.”
He couldn’t help smiling himself. She really was a well-trained con artist, not making the mistake of turning into a prima
donna and dressing the dowager down now that she’d been rescued.
“Oh, I didn’t know she was with you, sir. She didn’t say so.”
“I can’t think why!”
As they climbed up and around the soaring staircase, Johnny already regretted getting involved. There may be a story, but
he had other stories on his mind.
“Thank you, Mr….” She obviously didn’t have a clue who he was. For some reason that irritated him.
“I can’t imagine why she was giving me such a hard time,” she blithely chattered on. “I’d just gone downstairs to collect
my wrap—it’s a bit cool upstairs, and—”
“Where is it then?”
“Where’s what?”
“Your wrap.”
Her eyes were almost on a level with his. They were a strange greeny-brown color. She had very long lashes which looked like
her own. Now she batted them a few times, and without a pause, went right on, “Well, I changed my mind. I didn’t want to hide
my dress. I decided to be… well, chilly for the sake of fashion.” She laughed charmingly. “I’m Ginny Walker.”
What chutzpah. He didn’t respond or introduce himself as they reached the main room where the party was taking place. It didn’t
strike him as cool, although the air, sweet with the scent of a hundred thousand roses (as he’d been told several times already),
made him feel light-headed.
“Well, thank you,” the girl said again. “I better go find…” She held out her hand.
He ignored it. “Watch them move.” He pointed to all the grand dames milling about. “They never rub their noses, never move
their hands to their faces or sip a drink at the wrong time. Their heads will rise on cue and the turkey necks will disappear.”
She gave him the furtive look again, not sure where all this was leading.
“As one takes out her perfect little gold compact to powder her nose, so one by one will the others follow suit. Oh, the misery
of all those lifted faces without the hands to match, because you can only lengthen a sleeve so far, right?”
There was an awkward silence as he waited for her to speak. “Well, yes, well, yes, you’re right.” Ginny turned as if to look
for someone else to rescue her. He enjoyed her obvious discomfiture.
“Well, thank you, Mr…. I’d better be going.” Now she looked wary. She was no doubt convinced, he thought with more amusement,
that she’d been shanghaied by a madman.
“The reason for that little monologue is simple. It’s leading up to an important question. Why, ma’am, do you want to be with
these people? I’ve watched you before in similar situations. You’re crashing this party, aren’t you? You’re what I would call
a professional crasher. There’s no one out there waiting for you, is there?” He waved a hand casually at the chattering crowd.
“But why bother?”
She blushed, a pretty pink blush all the way from her collarbone to her forehead. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d
seen a woman blush. Trained to blush? An interesting thought, but then women could train themselves to do anything if it suited
them. Perhaps this little episode wasn’t going to be such a waste of time after all. Why would anyone, least of all a cute
young woman, as this one appeared to be, want to put herself in such a potentially demeaning situation?
As she moved her hand to brush a stray piece of hair from her face, he noticed her bracelet. Spectacular. If she owned a bracelet
like that, she could surely afford to attend this dinner and any others without crashing.
Despite the blush, there was no sign of embarrassment on Ginny’s face. She stared at him loftily. “I’m sure I don’t know what
you mean. I’m a guest of Poppy Gan. I’ve just forgotten the number of her table.”