Authors: Shirley Lord
He winked and grinned at the same time again, but this time it wasn’t attractive, and she noticed that when he turned abruptly
away, he slouched as he moved down the street.
Even though the passenger door was open and Alex had already moved in to take the wheel, Ginny hovered on the sidewalk, rather
than throw herself onto the seat as, alas, she knew she usually would have done. She bent down to give Alex the stare Sinclair
said she was famous for in class, the one which terrified the inmates, although they’d never admit it. It didn’t terrify her
cousin. He reached over and pulled her down.
“Get in before I get a ticket.”
She tumbled in, glad she had on a new skirt she’d made up from some ginger-colored leather Esme’s family didn’t want her to
wear. It went beautifully with her chestnut hair, but she hadn’t yet worked out the color scheme for the jacket.
As he zoomed them uptown, with no explanation for his long absence or apology for anything, Alex started snapping questions
at her like a machine gun.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to the Klein show?
“Why were you so late?
“If you’d arrived ten minutes earlier, I’d have taken you to one of the best seats in the house.
“Why are your priorities always so mixed up? Why on earth didn’t you tell me you wanted to go?”
She was so taken aback by his onslaught, she couldn’t think of a thing to say.
As they crossed over to Madison Avenue and passed Fifty-seventh Street and the exit for the Queensboro Bridge, Ginny finally
asked, “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
So now he was treating her like a ten-year-old. All right, Mr. Rossiter, she knew how to give the cold-shoulder treatment,
too.
Alex checked the one-of-a-kind missile into what she considered
to be a one-of-a-kind garage, charging for a few hours what would be a week’s house rent in Queens.
Clutching her by the arm as if she were an escaped fugitive, Alex literally marched her a block or two down Fifth Avenue into
a classy hotel called the Sherry something.
In the ultra hushed and plushed lobby (with two, not one, Versailles-type chandeliers), there was a large, very closed-looking
door with
Private Club
engraved on a gold plate, beneath what she first thought was the double intertwined C of the Chanel logo. It wasn’t a C.
It was a large, double intertwined D.
The door couldn’t have looked more closed, with “keep out” in invisible ink written all over it, but Alex opened it as casually
as if it were his own front door. Immediately before them was a luscious-looking, deep pile, dark purple carpeted stairway.
They descended down, down, down to arrive in another lobby with a beautiful antique porter’s desk where Alex casually scribbled
his name in a leatherbound visitors’ book.
“Is this called the Two D’s?” she whispered, to show him how observant she was.
No, she learned, this strictly private, subterranean club was called Doubles, buried so far beneath Fifth Avenue and East
Fifty-ninth Street that not even the most superintelligent beaver would be able to find it.
It was so velvety and plumped-up cushiony, it was like being encased in a jewel box from Tiffany’s, which was only two blocks
away, but at street level, of course.
It was also the kind of place where her mother would immediately start looking for the fire exit. There was no sense of time
or place here, no noise, no trace of climate, of day or night.
Ginny sat stiffly on the edge of a fat cushioned banquette, waiting for something momentous to happen, still trying to hold
back her forgiveness. The problem was, now she wasn’t altogether sure who was in the right and who was in the wrong. At that
moment the most delicious-looking piña colada appeared before her.
Where was all this glamorous treatment leading? As she took a sip she decided to push her suspicions aside. There was, after
all, something deliriously sinful about drinking the most exquisite drink in living memory at barely five o’clock in the afternoon.
And to think that less than thirty minutes ago the extent of her expectations had been a cup of coffee or a glass of jug wine
with Robb Sinclair.
“Sony I haven’t been in touch,” Alex said abruptly. “Some urgent business came up in Europe—I had to fly to Switzerland right
after the Klein show.”
If this was Alex doing penance she decided she’d put up with his offhand behavior and bad moods—providing they didn’t crop
up too often. To help give the ugly, suspicious side of her nature a slight concussion she took another swig of the piña.
She waited. Silence, then, swinging a carefree arm around her space on the banquette, Alex continued, “I’m so proud of you,
Ginny. I hear you’re on the way to becoming the youngest person at Pace ever to get a B.A. in finance—and in record time.
Congratulations!”
As she had already been told this was probably so, she nodded with what she hoped was humility, laughing giddily the next
second when Alex added, “with your father taking full credit, of course.”
“Of course.”
The piña colada couldn’t drown out her real problem, which was that once again, in no time at all, Alex was mesmerizing her.
She had never met anyone remotely like him, who could make her laugh hysterically one minute and the next, trigger her into
a serious debate on the Dalai Lama. With her limited social circle she didn’t suppose she ever would.
Alcohol sometimes made her father maudlin, melancholy; and just occasionally it had that effect on her. Before the tears she
felt lurking plopped into her regal glass, Alex gave her a squeeze and to her surprise said, “After working your guts out,
you deserve something special. Name your desire… I’ve just closed on a big deal, so the sky’s the limit.”
For a minute she had lockjaw, then, thank God, remembering her parlous state, came to her senses. “Retail math, merchandising
planning and gross margins.” She couldn’t believe she’d said it.
Alex looked put out. “What are you talking about? I thought you’d say a trip to Paris, an Hermès bag, a… a… oh, I don’t
know, young women are a strange breed.”
“It’s some courses I long to take at FIT…”
“But you’re already taking courses there and turning into a salesgirl on weekends to pay for them…” The way he said “turning
into a salesgirl” was not complimentary.
She wasn’t deterred. Seeing a shining light at the end of a long, dark tunnel, Ginny began to develop a speech in her head
on how incredibly valuable she’d discovered FIT to be and how terrified she was she wouldn’t be able to afford to go there
much longer without some extra financial help.
Alex removed his arm and sank back into the cushions. “You know your parents think I influence you too much, don’t you, Gin?”
He could change the subject faster than a cloud covered the sun.
“Well, you do influence me. What’s wrong with that? They should be thrilled I have you as a role model and not some creep
who doesn’t know a… a… Hockney from a… a…”
“Hallmark,” he supplied instantly. Then, “Hold it. Hold it right there.” He took a camera from his pocket.
“Why?”
“I love that look of yours.” He snapped away. “It’s the bored, aloof countenance of a cheetah.”
“Oh, Alex, I do love you.”
She did, too. Pretense and poses hadn’t a chance. Her parents were right. He did influence her too much and she did care for
him too much. It had always been like that, ever since in her distant memory she remembered first meeting him when he came
to visit with his mother, her father’s clever sister. How old had she been? About four, so he must have been fourteen or fifteen,
thrilling her even then with his devilish smile and sophistication. If only he wasn’t her cousin…
“And I love you, too, cheetah, but…” His voice was unusually serious. “I worry about you. You’re brainy, creative, as cute
as a button, but just when you should be having the most fun, you’re all work and no play. You’re too choosy.”
She was so shocked by this switch in direction, she took a long sip of the delicious drink to prepare for the worst
“It’s not altogether your fault. Graham and Virginia have brought you up to look down your nose too much, to be too picky.
For instance, why don’t you go out with this Robb character you told me about? You might find he has hidden depths.”
She’d forgotten she’d told Alex about the creep, forgotten she’d embellished Sinclair’s winks and hanging around to make it
sound as if she was the much sought after prey of a Tom Cruise look-alike, tycoon-in-the-making kind of character. How embarrassing.
In a little-girl voice she despised, she said, “I thought I told you he’s already tied up.” She couldn’t resist adding, “or
down, if you ask me. He wanted to break it off, but…” she paused, trying to think how a Tom Cruise tycoon-type personality
would handle a three-way situation. It came out in a rush. “He’s engaged to the daughter of some trillionaire who’s going
to set him up in business and I wouldn’t let him do…”
She couldn’t finish the sentence, because Alex was laughing so hard. She tried not to laugh herself, and instead began to
fume. “Stop it, Alex. Stop making fun of me. I’m not picky; I’m not choosy.”
Alex poked her in the ribs. “What’s the long face for? Wasn’t that Robb—the Tom Cruise look-alike—with you, coming out of
class?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“The fair Tom Cruise, the one trying to grow a beard for his next part? The one with the brass ring in his ear?”
Now she was half crying, half screaming with laughter. Alex put a light hand across her mouth. “Shush, you’ll get us both
thrown out of here. Time to get down to business.”
The cloud was back across the sun. She was right to be suspicious.
Why was Alex, a Wall Street heavy, carrying a camera? Why had he turned into a shutterbug this afternoon? She tensed up. Now
she was going to hear the real reason for Alex picking her up.
“This fashion design business is infecting your whole personality. I mean it’s taken over your life.” He looked at her reflectively.
“I met a model the other day in Europe—in Dusseldorf, to be precise. She was home visiting her family.”
“How cozy.” She hoped he got the lack of enthusiasm in her voice. She leaned forward as his arm encircled her space again.
“It was Claudia Schiffer on her home turf.” Alex gave the laugh she usually adored, short, slightly mocking at the absurdity
of life. “She was discovered dancing in a Dusseldorf disco, you know. She’s absolutely gorgeous.”
“How cozy,” she said again, immediately feeling foolish.
Despite the “your-parents-worry-I-influence-you-too-much” garbage, was it possible Alex was acting as an emissary of her mother
in bringing her to his jewel box of a club?
“Remember when I told you once what constitutes the real importance, influence, of a top designer today?” He wasn’t expecting
an answer. “Well, Ginny, there’s a new era of influence emerging, my little duckling…”
She was too depressed to remind him she’d looked like a bored cheetah half a glass of piña colada ago.
“The supermodels, they’re beginning to replace movie stars as icons, influences, and they’re earning incredible bucks, huge
bucks because”—another Alex laugh—“they are huge; they’re literally titans of beauty. Schiffer told me she’s five eleven,
and Christy Turlington and Cindy Crawford—”
“She’s much shorter and has a mole,” Ginny interrupted sulkily.
“And thanks God for it every night. How much d’you think these beanstalks are getting for a sitting?”
“A sitting?”
“A photo shoot.”
“I haven’t a clue.” Couldn’t her superperceptive cousin realize
her anger was so heavy, it was hanging in the Doubles air like a bomb waiting to explode?
Of course he realized, but he was so secure he made matters worse. He chucked her under the chin.
“Don’t do that!”
“D’you know why I did it?”
No answer.
“You have a dream of a chin, a pointy little chin which makes you—”
“Pretty!” she snarled out the word, having heard her mother say it more times than she could count and now certain where her
faithless cousin was headed.
She had been too carefully raised to watch for behavioral clues, slip-ups in speech, any kind of evidence of a moving day
around the corner, not to be able to sniff “trouble,” even from her once-beloved A.
“No, you’re not pretty,” he went on as smooth as silk, “well, not conventionally so, but you have a cheeky urchin look, emphasized
by that pointy chin of yours, which, as I’ve explained to your perceptive mama, might make you eminently photographable.”
The bomb exploded. “I can’t believe it; I can’t believe that you’re actually talking about me becoming a model.” Ginny took
a good slug of her drink. “For the one and only time in my life I agree with my father. I’d rather do anything, serve hamburgers
at McDonald’s, spray scent at Bloomingdale’s or make selling lamps there my lifelong career, than strut along a runway. It’s
brainless, it’s mindless. I want to use my brain, not my body. I thought you understood I want to be a designer.”
The tears were out in the open, one fast after the other down her cheeks. She no longer cared.
Apparently neither did Alex. He leaned back, as cool and as unperturbed, Ginny thought, as Sam Shepard as Chuck Yeager in
The Right Stuff.
For the first time she was tempted to slap him across the face, hard.
“How d’you plan to go about that?”
Playing for time to think of an answer that would finish the discussion, Ginny took another long sip and made a disgusting
slurping sound as she dredged up what was left at the bottom of the glass.
Alex beckoned and another piña colada appeared.
Ginny protested, but he ignored her, repeating the question. “How do you intend to become a designer?”
She was ready. Well, almost. “I’ll start as a design assistant, a gofer, a dupe maker, a fitter, anything with one of the
fashion greats.”
Alex raised an eyebrow sardonically. “Who d’you have in mind?”
Before she could start on the list, Alex put his arm around her, not just the banquette, and because it was so unusual, she
wanted to burst into tears and have him kiss every tear away. Instead, she shut up like a tortoise and sort of withdrew her
head (and pointy chin) into his shoulder.