Authors: Shirley Lord
Peet could feel his anger building up again. He looked at his watch. It was too early, but after the events of the last few
days, he needed a drink. He got up and poured himself a stiff scotch.
All right, so he’d been too damned busy to miss her, but, funnily enough, right up until the end he always believed he loved
her, despite her maddening waspy habits, despite her hypocrisy, showing to her equally well-bred friends only a damned stiff
upper lip about his long absences abroad, while endlessly breathing heavily and tearily into the phone to him.
He’d often told her he’d prefer her to scream like a banshee and get the pent-up resentment out of her system, but her water-in-the-veins
hoity-toity parents hadn’t brought her up to behave like that, and in recent years she’d used her “delicate health” as a special
weapon to torment him.
Now she was gone. All the years of trying to be as decent a husband and father as he could, while doing his job to the best
of his capacity, were wasted. She’d left every penny of her Ponsoby money to the son born in London, to Johnny. He still couldn’t
believe it. Almost a million and a half after taxes, to a wastrel son who hadn’t had the decency to let even a week go by
after the reading of the will, before quitting the
Times
and telling him he was going to write a column for
Next!
magazine, of all disgraceful publications.
He would never forgive Cathy for slapping his face so publicly from beyond the grave. Never. He probably would find it hard
to forgive Johnny, too, although he’d seen for himself how stunned Johnny had been by his mother’s will, as stunned as he’d
been himself.
Or had he been putting on an act? Was it possible he’d misjudged Johnny all these years, thinking of him, often ruefully,
as a fairly bright young man of average talent and ambition, who’d never set the world on fire, but who, nonetheless, was
decent, honest, caring?
Peet poured himself another scotch. Had his son changed since his marriage to Dolores, the wildcat from Bolivia, whose claim
to fame was a publicly aired threat of bankruptcy at twenty-one? Had Johnny changed or had he always been Machiavellian, cunning,
hiding an array of objectives beneath his easygoing, softhearted manner?
He couldn’t believe it. Not because he was his son. Because he, Quentin Peet, who’d unveiled some of the most brilliant, duplicitious
characters in the world, was too smart to be fooled. “But,” a voice nagged in his brain, “your own wife fooled you. Despite
her being equally horrified over Johnny’s marriage, she still preferred to leave what remained of her inheritance to him and
not to you.” It was an act of revenge he didn’t deserve.
He heard the fax machine going in the other room and soon after, the phone began to ring. He ignored both, staring grimly
into space. Finally, he picked up
The Racing Form
and scanned the day’s runners. Perfidy was running at Aqueduct at 8 to 1. It seemed an appropriate choice. He leaned over
to call his bookie.
Finito. It was all over. Ginny Walker was never going to be a model, let alone a supermodel. She had just been insulted for
the last time and it had given her great pleasure to tear her much-mulled-over contact sheet into shreds and shower them over
the so-called style editor’s head.
She should have done it before. After all, she and it had been seen now by three “top bookers” at three “leading model agencies,”
as well as by four editors, all with different titles, but the same job, flesh assessor, at four women’s magazines.
Her paper shower had gone to a particularly well deserving
assessor with acne at
Harper’s Bazaar,
who’d had the gall to say to her face, “Sweet, but a shade too ordinary for us.”
There was coffee in a paper cup on her desk. Ginny was tempted to wash away literally the editor’s hypocritical expression
of regret by pouring that over her, too. The editor must have read her mind. She moved the cup, and Ginny turned on her three-inch
heels and marched away.
No more tears. THERE MUST BE NO MORE TEARS.
She would never set foot in Oz Tabori’s studio again; she would never pose again; she would never read a stupid women’s magazine
again. To add colossal insult to horrendous injury she had also learned in the last week that Ford had actually signed Poppy
Gan. There was no justice in the world. It was months short of her six-month deadline, but she was on her way to Seventh Avenue
in the morning.
By the time she collapsed in a heap at Sophie’s, although her bravado had dried up, a slow-burning anger remained, at the
world in general and photographers, model agencies and magazine bookings editors in particular.
“There was a call for you.” Sophie was such a doll; she made it sound like a proposal of marriage.
“I don’t care. I’m not calling him for a while.” Mr. “Everything is going to be okay” Tabori was dead and buried as far as
she was concerned.
“It wasn’t a him. It was a her. It was…” Sophie put on her reading glasses. “A Miss Baker Davies, contributing editor of
Harper’s Bazaar,”
she finished triumphantly.
So the butch stylist had already heard about her aberrant behavior. So what? Ms. Baker Davies could congratulate herself on
her all-seeing eye and pat herself on the back that she had known before anyone, including Ginny Walker herself, that her
face was anonymous, sweet, but ordinary, lacking that certain “look” factor needed in the great money making faces of today.
“Aren’t you going to call her back?”
“No.”
“Oh, Ginny, dear, I think you should. It could be important”
Was Sophie trying to tell her what she knew only too well? That she had been taking her hospitality without contributing anything
to hearth and home? Ginny didn’t really think so, but she was super-sensitive on the subject, and her Bloomingdale’s savings
and dowry from the parents were running awfully low.
All the same, she wasn’t going to call the stylist just to hear “I told you so” and run the risk of being kissed, even on
the cheek. “No,” Ginny said again brusquely and went into her box and shut the lid.
The evening stretched before her. She had to get away from Sophie’s reproachful eyes. She called Esme; and to her relief,
Esme told her she had a night off from Ted—he’d gone to a business conference in Toronto.
Ginny rented an old Bette Davis movie,
Now Voyager,
and they watched it, eating pizza and drinking kir on the king-size bed in the king-size apartment Esme now shared with Ted
in the upper eighties.
Bette’s suffering in the movie made Ginny relax enough to pour out the story of her non-supermodel splash, endless rejections
and feelings of total inadequacy.
“But you never wanted to join the brain-dead model set,” Esme exclaimed. “Remember how you told me over and over you were
only going through the motions to please your mother and Alex, your genius of a cousin.” Ginny didn’t like the sarcastic way
Esme referred to Alex, but forgot it when she continued, “You were born to be a designer. Don’t waste another second thinking
about something you never wanted to do in the first place. Get into designing—go to Seventh Avenue.”
Because of Ted’s money, Esme only went to Blooming-dale’s as a shopper now. “You’re needed out there,” she told Ginny soothingly.
“There are tons of clothes, but they all look the same. Go to it, Gin…”
By the time Ginny left the apartment, she’d shortened one of Esme’s recent purchases, critiqued a toque hat (suggesting Esme
wear it back to front), and altogether—with Esme’s encouragement, the kirs and Bette Davis—felt like a reasonably okay person
again, even if a slightly hung-over one.
There was a message in capital letters by Sophie’s phone: “MS. BAKER DAVIES CALLED AGAIN. SHE KNOWS WHAT HAPPENED AND SAYS
NOT TO WORRY IT HAPPENS ALL THE TIME. SHE KNOWS OF A JOB FOR YOU WITH A DESIGNER, EVERARD GOSMAN. PLEASE CALL IN THE A.M.”
Underneath, in red pencil, Sophie had written and underlined, “Please wake me up if I’m asleep when you get in or make sure
to see me in the morning. I know Gosman. This could be good.” Dear Sophie. Dear Ms. Baker Davies.
Ginny rolled into bed and dreamed Bette Davis’s lover, Paul Henreid, was trying to make love to her in a canoe.
Sophie woke her up with a cup of coffee, apologizing that it was only just after seven, but, “I was so worried I’d miss you.”
Ginny was instantly alert. Good God, Gosman! Baker Davies had called about the possibility of a job with Everard Gosman!
Sophie bubbled over with excitement. What a loving, kindhearted chaperone she’d turned out to be. “I spoke for a long time
to your friend, Ms. Baker Davies. She really likes you, you know.” Sophie missed seeing Ginny’s grimace. “Everard Gosman needs
an assistant. Of course, he’s not really a designer.” Seeing Ginny’s frown, Sophie added hastily, “I’m telling you this now
because in this business you may hear him dismissed unkindly as a merchandiser.”
“Quoi?
—excuse my French.”
“That’s what people are called who copy other people’s designs,” Sophie explained carefully, “but Gosman is so good, his copies
of French couture at low prices are amazing. I hear the stores are lapping them up. As usual it’s only the jealous ones who
call him that.”
Certainly Lee Baker Davies, apparently one of Gosman’s oldest friends, never did. When Ginny called her back an hour later,
she asked to meet her for coffee to see her portfolio. She then gave her the third degree about her basic pattern/dressmaking
knowledge and business experience.
Thank God what Ginny had learned at FIT and a B.A. in finance were enough to impress Lee. In twenty-four hours she’d arranged
an interview for Ginny with Gosman, who hired her on the spot at twenty thousand dollars a year. (She could probably have
gotten more, but it didn’t even occur to her to ask until she waltzed home—if you can waltz on the subway.)
That weekend she went to Maryland to tell her parents her good news, and on Monday morning she joined Everard Gosman at 554
Seventh Avenue, spitting distance from the BIG INFLUENCES: Lauren, de la Renta, Karan, Klein… also only a few steps from
Lou G. Siegel’s kosher restaurant, where chicken livers on toast were to become her favorite meal, WHEN she had time to eat
an actual meal.
Ginny Walker was in heaven and so was Mr. Gosman, who knew he’d never had it so good, because from that Monday on she set
out to be
absolument
indispensable and so she was… a girl Friday, Saturday and every other day of the week if he needed her.
He needed her, all right. During a twenty-minute “training session” Ginny discovered how desperately disorganized he was,
with phone calls coming in one after the other, people rushing in and out with “urgent” written all over them, and Gosman
yelling instructions so fast all his words ran together.
The Wizard of Oz was still pursuing her. Ginny couldn’t imagine why, unless it was that pride thing of his, because he had
made it clear she was the only girl he’d ever photographed who’d refused to go to bed with him. Also, he was still convinced
his pictures proved what a wonderful model she could be.
Those in charge of making it come true hadn’t agreed. That was all there was to it. He could call everyone involved “assholes”
until the earth froze over, but it wasn’t going to change anything. One day he’d get the message. Goodbye, Oz, forever. Today
was the first day of the rest of her life, her wonderful new life in the fashion industry.
As she rushed into the showroom, half an hour early, as
eager and friendly as a wirehaired terrier, Gosman was prancing around with
Women’s Wear Daily.
“Read it. Read it, little girl. Learn something about your boss.” As he kept it firmly in his hands she didn’t have a chance
until the phone demanded his attention. It was a story about a Gosman copy of a Valentino dress ($325 vs. $3,050), with what
Ginny supposed Mr. G. took to be an admiring quote from a retailer: “He’s a Xerox machine on legs. He remembers every detail
and never runs out of ink.”
Some of the staff were openly snickering, but obviously Mr. G. was proud of the piece, because later that morning he sent
Ginny out to find a narrow black frame, so it could join the other framed clips on his wall, ones that chronicled his chutzpah
and craftsmanship with headlines like COPYCAT CHAMP, INSTANT “COUTURE”—GOSMAN STYLE.
As far as Ginny could see, the press had been reporting his espionage for years, because he’d never bothered to hide it. He
attended the Paris shows with a sketchbook, returning home to the U.S. to transform his sketches in a matter of days into
three- and four-hundred-dollar best-selling copies of the multithousand-dollar French designs.
Ginny couldn’t understand why he was so peculiarly proud of his reputation as a first-class copier. Ironic, because while
he boasted about what, after all, was stealing someone else’s work, he hid the fact that he actually designed originals all
the time. On his desk were piles of sketch pads, many filled with new ideas.
Why? Was he scared to try out anything that was all his own? She was too new a girl on the block to suggest he give it a go.
“I want nine dollars off 705,” he yelled one morning as she brought him his daily apple juice and baby aspirin (something
to do with warding off heart attacks).
Mauve Smith, one of the male assistant designers, was nervously “walking through” 705, a short, pouffed-out silk taffeta dress
from the new collection, just arrived from the factory several congested blocks away. This shape was “borrowed,”
Ginny gathered, from Christian Lacroix, a new French designer.
Mauve rapidly went through the cost (for interfacing, china silk lining, buttons, zipper and, of course, the five yards of
fabric).
Gosman threw up his hands in disgust when he heard the fabric cost twenty dollars a yard. “Howd’y’thinkwecanmakeanymoney.”
Ginny often didn’t understand him, but this was a familiar cry.
She ran outside. She had been seeing fabric reps the third day after her arrival, simply because there was no one else available
to see them. In several cases she’d asked for a sample five-yard cut because “it said something.”