“and it may interest you to know, if you catch Elsa
Klensch’s fashion coverage on CNN tonight, she will probably describe me as one of those ‘dressed to kill’ at the New York
fashion shows today.”
The ad really upset her mother, who after all was a major player in the fashion business these days, working for Scaasi, one
of the few celebrated custom designers left. According toher mother, Scaasi evening dresses were the price of a station wagon, but then, Ginny figured, they did need an awful lot
of expensive fabric. His most famous client, Barbara Bush, First Lady until she’d been replaced in January by Hillary Clinton,
was apparently svelte in comparison to some of his others.
Her mother thought the ad was offensive, condescending, but Ginny, after a few minutes staring out of the stationary cab,
decided it didn’t bother her. If it made women take a second look in their suburban mirrors before setting out for the big
city, she was all for this kind of confrontation.
It was part of the “say-it-as-it-is” New York challenge, something she felt physically—energizing, yet terrifying—every time
she saw the incredible Manhattan skyline just waiting to devour her. It didn’t happen often. Only on the rare occasions, as
now, when she crossed the East River by cab.
The subway was her usual loathsome mode of transport, suffocating, but usually swift, delivering her for the last eighteen
months to the drudgery of Pace business school. There, as usual because of her December birthday, she was the youngest in
the class; and because of her height, also as usual, she was among the tallest, towering over all the lumpy girls, and, alas,
many of the guys.
They’d moved to Queens in the fall of ‘91, after a disastrous few months in Boston, where to her excruciating embarrassment
she’d discovered her father was using “Harvard” in his “business” address, although they’d lived miles away from the college
and, of course, had nothing to do with it anyway.
It had been the worst time of her life, but at least it could go down in Walker history as the year her mother had FINALLY
HAD ENOUGH.
Unemployed, hearing through the pins-and-needles network about an opening for an experienced fitter at Scaasi, Virginia Walker
had left the house one morning, glowing references in hand, taken the shuttle to La Guardia, and storming the couture citadel,
despite stiff competition, walked away with the job.
Her mother had announced now she was the one moving on to a “new opportunity”—in New York City—and, thank the Lord, was taking
her daughter with her. The Walker School could move, too, with its founder and chairman of the board, or it could stay exactly
where it was—in no-win “Harvard” country.
Ginny had been on cloud nine, thinking they were going to live in Manhattan, but it was financially out of the question—certainly
for the first few years, Mother said. She’d felt a lot better when she’d realized that Queens, although a borough of New York,
was actually situated on Long Island.
In
People
magazine she’d read that it was where Donna Karan, another of her fashion idols, had grown up—“miserably,” nicknamed “Popeye”
and “Spaghetti Legs”—for obvious reasons. Describing herself as a “social misfit,” Karan hadn’t joined in the usual school
activities, longing for the day when she could focus on something she was good at, fashion designing. Ginny found it comforting.
And with a mother also in the fashion business, Karan and she seemed to have a lot in common.
It was Fashion Week in New York City and if the traffic ever allowed her, Ginny was on her way to see the show of another
American designer she was wild about, Calvin Klein.
The tiny beads of perspiration she kept wiping from her upper lip with her best linen handkerchief had nothing to do with
any heat in the taxi. There was no heat.
No, nerves were responsible for her
Klensch’s fashion coverage on CNN tonight, she will probably describe me as one of those ‘dressed to kill’ at the New York
fashion shows today.”
The ad really upset her mother, who after all was a major player in the fashion business these days, working for Scaasi, one
of the few celebrated custom designers left. According toher mother, Scaasi evening dresses were the price of a station wagon, but then, Ginny figured, they did need an awful lot
of expensive fabric. His most famous client, Barbara Bush, First Lady until she’d been replaced in January by Hillary Clinton,
was apparently svelte in comparison to some of his others.
Her mother thought the ad was offensive, condescending, but Ginny, after a few minutes staring out of the stationary cab,
decided it didn’t bother her. If it made women take a second look in their suburban mirrors before setting out for the big
city, she was all for this kind of confrontation.
It was part of the “say-it-as-it-is” New York challenge, something she felt physically—energizing, yet terrifying—every time
she saw the incredible Manhattan skyline just waiting to devour her. It didn’t happen often. Only on the rare occasions, as
now, when she crossed the East River by cab.
The subway was her usual loathsome mode of transport, suffocating, but usually swift, delivering her for the last eighteen
months to the drudgery of Pace business school. There, as usual because of her December birthday, she was the youngest in
the class; and because of her height, also as usual, she was among the tallest, towering over all the lumpy girls, and, alas,
many of the guys.
They’d moved to Queens in the fall of ‘91, after a disastrous few months in Boston, where to her excruciating embarrassment
she’d discovered her father was using “Harvard” in his “business” address, although they’d lived miles away from the college
and, of course, had nothing to do with it anyway.
It had been the worst time of her life, but at least it could go down in Walker history as the year her mother had FINALLY
HAD ENOUGH.
Unemployed, hearing through the pins-and-needles network about an opening for an experienced fitter at Scaasi, Virginia Walker
had left the house one morning, glowing references in hand, taken the shuttle to La Guardia, and storming the couture citadel,
despite stiff competition, walked away with the job.
Her mother had announced now she was the one moving on to a “new opportunity”—in New York City—and, thank the Lord, was taking
her daughter with her. The Walker School could move, too, with its founder and chairman of the board, or it could stay exactly
where it was—in no-win “Harvard” country.
Ginny had been on cloud nine, thinking they were going to live in Manhattan, but it was financially out of the question—certainly
for the first few years, Mother said. She’d felt a lot better when she’d realized that Queens, although a borough of New York,
was actually situated on Long Island.
In
People
magazine she’d read that it was where Donna Karan, another of her fashion idols, had grown up—“miserably,” nicknamed “Popeye”
and “Spaghetti Legs”—for obvious reasons. Describing herself as a “social misfit,” Karan hadn’t joined in the usual school
activities, longing for the day when she could focus on something she was good at, fashion designing. Ginny found it comforting.
And with a mother also in the fashion business, Karan and she seemed to have a lot in common.
It was Fashion Week in New York City and if the traffic ever allowed her, Ginny was on her way to see the show of another
American designer she was wild about, Calvin Klein.
The tiny beads of perspiration she kept wiping from her upper lip with her best linen handkerchief had nothing to do with
any heat in the taxi. There was no heat.
No, nerves were responsible for her
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