Free The Crasher by Shirley Lord Page B

“borrowed” her mother’s evening bag—black, unshiny moire, so it didn’t shout ” P.M .”
    As the taxi waited behind an idling Mercedes, Ginny settled the outrageous fare (twenty-four dollars plus three dollars tip)
     before it finally pulled up exactly at the entrance to the fashion tent.
    Despite a hiss and a glare from the turbaned one, she took her time getting out, placing first one long, sheer-stockinged
     leg firmly on the pavement, then the other, bending her torso slightly forward, head held high, slightly smiling but—unnoticed,
     she hoped—gripping the taxi seat like death to propel herself out of the cab with one graceful movement, without leaving the
     coat behind.
    It wasn’t easy, but as usual Alex was right about how posture and grace always attract attention. Her arrival wasmarked by a few flashbulbs going off and she knew without looking left or right that the gawkers were wondering who she was.
     (So, in a funny sort of way, was she, knowing that in a few moments she intended to use the name of someone she’d never set
     eyes on.) She’d never been photographed arriving anywhere before, unless you counted the wedding of her mother’s close friend,
     Alice Turner. She certainly didn’t.
    She approached the newly carpeted (already dusty) steps with the same slight smile as another photographer flashed, and a
     perfect candidate for Charivari, in grubby leather jacket and sloppy jeans, murmured, “Sorry, could you give me your name?”
    It was a great moment, but she blew it, saying too hurriedly over her shoulder, “Ginny Walker.” Even to her, it sounded like
     “gin and water.” Too late she realized she should have practiced using the name of the French fashion editor, her passport
     into the show.
    It was already ten minutes past showtime, yet she was amazed—and horrified—to find hordes of people, as many men as women,
     of every age, color and fashion peculiarity, pushing, shoving, forcing her to rush along with them down a wide entrance hall,
     lined with booths offering free Evian, free newspapers and even hair-color forecasts from Clairol.
    It was Armageddon. Even if she wanted to linger, to soak up every molecule of her first New York fashion show, it was impossible.
     If she stopped short, she was sure everyone would trample her into the floor.
    It wasn’t at all what she’d expected. There was no way anyone could see what anyone else was wearing, let alone show off any
     fashion style of one’s own. There was no way she could find Alex to see his startled admiration at the way she looked.
    Figures of speech came to mind: a pride of lions… a gaggle of geese… more like a herd of elephants trampling wildly on as
     they did in that wonderful old movie
Elephant Walk
In common with Alex she was mad about old movies. They were so inspirational.
    “Move… show your tickets… show your tickets… move!” bellowed tough-looking guards.
    Buyers, editors, hip and chic nobodys like herself were waving little green tickets, except she didn’t have a little green
     ticket. She was acid-green with envy, but not deterred. Heart-skipping adrenaline pushed her forward. Nobody seemed to be
     taking the green tickets, which added to her up-yours optimism.
    A strong bebop beat of music started up from behind a huge white wall at the end of the hall, the magic wall which stood between
     the charging elephants and the arena and runway where the action was obviously about to begin.
    Somehow she’d ended up sandwiched between an oversized black man—he had to be at least six foot six—wearing an odd cocoon-shaped
     cloak and an older woman with hair so sleek and close to her head it reminded Ginny of her old labrador who’d died in Boston.
    It was as if they were glued together. They all made a frantic rush for the opening in the white wall. The guard stationed
     there obviously knew her companions, because as she copied them, waving her arms about, pantomiming important lateness,