Glamour

by Louise Bagshawe

  She tugged her silken robes a little tighter around her shoulders, and the diplomat was impressed. Indeed, whatever her origins, Haya al-Yanna bore herself as though the crown were on her dark head already.

  “But you and everyone else need to understand something. I will not let them destroy this place. Today is the last meeting. And I’m going to make it count.”

  He was silent in the face of her anger.

  “You may call them back in,” Haya told him regally, dismissively.

  She turned back to the report.

  Sally blew one last kiss to the cheering crowds, waving just the tips of her manicured fingers at them. “Thank you all so much!”

  She crossed the red carpet to where the hungry media were waiting. Flashbulbs popped like fireworks; a forest of microphones jostled toward Sally’s face. The Arabian princess had cut them dead, and that was lame, but so what? Sally was the real golden girl, America’s sweetheart! The reporters shoved forward, yelling questions at the star.

  “Sally! Is it time to get your revenge?”

  “Who owns GLAMOUR?”

  “Are you here to take control?”

  “Is this an American company?”

  “What do you have to say to the fans?”

  That last one was a perfect softball. Sally stopped smiling for the photographers and turned to camera.

  “I want to thank them for their love and support! I couldn’t do it without you guys!” she purred.

  “What’re your plans, Sally?”

  “You know how much I love GLAMOUR! I’m just here to set things straight.” She gave America that famous wink. “Now don’t y’all worry, because I’m here to see everything works out just fine.”

  “But Princess Haya! Jane Morgan!”

  “I looooove those ladies,” Sally said brightly. “But everyone knows that GLAMOUR is Sally Nelson! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get to work.”

  She blew another kiss, direct to TV land, pirouetted on her Manolos, and sashayed up the red carpet while the doormen saluted.

  The reporters buzzed.

  Sally Nelson knows how to give good coverage.

  Sally is such a star.

  She is gonna kick those other girls’ asses.

  None of the paparazzi had any doubt.

  “It’s coming up ahead, Miz Morgan.”

  “I know where the store is,” Jane said shortly. She examined the letters from her bankers. Every word of the legal document mattered. Sometimes lawyers let things slip; she didn’t trust them.

  “Shall I take you out front?” Her driver peered ahead.“There sure is a big crowd. Look at that turnout!”

  “No. Make a left here.”

  “A left?”

  Was he deaf? “Yes,” she snapped.

  “But GLAMOUR …”

  “We’re not going to GLAMOUR.We’re going to the storage warehouse. There’s a closed parking lot between the warehouse and the offices.”

  “You don’t want anybody to see you,” he said, slowly clocking on.

  That’s right.

  “I can’t stand fuss.”

  In the rearview mirror he watched the chestnut hair, wound tight into a neat bun as tight as she was. Damn! He’d seen porcupines with less prickles.

  But Jane Morgan paid good, real good, and at Christmas his bonus could run into thousands of dollars. His colleague’s son, the one with the gimpy leg, had gotten bullied at school and Miz Morgan had paid for private Catholic school. Now that the kid had maxed out his SATs, Rafael thought he might be going to get a scholarship to the Ivy League.

  He swallowed and shut up. So she didn’t fraternize. That was okay. Everybody who worked for Morgana, Inc., knew who the boss was.

  “Yes, ma’am, you got it,” he said.

  Two minutes later he had dropped America’s toughest new businesswoman, queen of the Dow Jones, at the back of the warehouse. He watched as she swung her neat legs in their court shoes out the back of his car and marched off, between the enormous trucks full of GLAMOUR goodies, through the parking lot.

  So she was arriving on the down low. Jason figured she had some calls to make, last-minute deals, something like that.

  Most thought this was her last stand.That it was all over.

  Not him.

  He’d never bet against Jane Morgan.

  The boardroom crackled with energy.

  The long, glossy table was surrounded by rows of men and women in dark suits—high-priced lawyers, investment bankers, and M&A sharks, all toying with their pads and Montblanc pens, or pretending to examine their figures.

  Behind them, the view was fabulous. High over Beverly Hills, the floor-to-ceiling glass walls showed every billboard, every limo wavering in the smoggy haze hanging over the city. But nobody was distracted.

  Around the head of the table were the three women of the hour. On the left sat Princess Haya, her security men hanging back behind her chair, cradling their guns.

  Directly opposite her sat Sally Nelson, her famous blonde hair cascading glossily down her back, her baby blue eyes steely and hard, revealing the businesswoman behind the star. She was more than a figurehead, and she was here to let them know it.

  And in the center, having insisted on her right to the chairman’s seat, sat Jane Morgan, all in black. Dressed for her own funeral?

  Three powerful women. Once best friends. Now deadly rivals. Each of them determined to control the world’s most famous store. A global icon.

  Its fate, and theirs, would be determined today.

  Jane Morgan stared down the length of the table; she nodded coldly at Haya and Sally. Most people in this room thought all her plans were about to be ruined, but her voice, that famously cool English voice, betrayed no fear.

  “Good morning.The meeting will come to order.”

  CHAPTER 2

  LOS ANGELES, TEN YEARS EARLIER

  You’ve got to FIGHT

  For your RIGHT

  To PAAAARRRTTYYY …

  The boom box in the corner of the playground was pumping out rap, the Beastie Boys blasting into the still air of a muggy fall day in Beverly Hills. It was the start of a new term, and the teachers smiled to each other and looked the other way. Already the overprivileged girls of Miss Milton’s Academy were settling back into their tight little cliques; Julie Manners, the queen of eighth grade, had her new toy out and she was showing off. Julie and her friends wore their white socks around their ankles, hitched up their skirts, pinned their hair back with Ray-Bans, and wore badges with heavy-metal bands on them.They banged their heads, long hair flying, to show just how tough they were.

  The teachers, milling around the registration booths outside, pretended to be deep in conversation, ignoring Julie and her clique. Her dad was a movie director, and that made her powerful. This was the eighties; fame and celebrity counted for a lot in this town. And everywhere else, for that matter.

  Most of the girls, younger and older, were already forming knots around the queen bee, pretending to like the music, complimenting her on her hair, her Lee Press-On nails, the cloud of Dior Poison she liked to swan around in. Julie eyed them all with a nasty sneer, her hair tossing, as though deciding where to dispense her favors. It was social death to be disliked by the most powerful clique in school.

  And the staff had learned to fear her, too. Teachers Julie’s dad didn’t like tended to have short tenures at Miss Milton’s. They shut their ears to the deafening music, pretending it was no big deal. Heavy metal and rap were in. So was Julie. And everybody wanted to be just like her.

  Well—almost everybody.

  A dark, slender girl sat in the opposite corner of the playground, next to the oh-so-hip Zen garden the school board had planted over the vacation; raked lines of gravel, flat stepping stones, square pools, bonsai trees, and flourishing patches of bamboo. She sat on the lawn, reading a book, her neat leather satchel beside her.

  Unconcerned with Julie’s court.Waiting for someone.

  “Limey
,” hissed Maureen Smith, kicking at her as she passed.

  “Do sod off, Maureen,” the girl replied equitably. She wasn’t much to look at: neat hair in a severe ponytail, black-rimmed glasses, no makeup. But there was a certain resilience to her.

  Maureen Smith was one of Julie’s cronies.

  “Jane Morgan. The bookworm’s at it again. What’s this?” She snatched up the slim volume. “Ariel by Sylvia Plath. Hmm … studying up on laundry detergent?”

  Maureen snickered. Jane Morgan didn’t suck up. And she didn’t fear bullying.Two reasons to hate her.The girl wasn’t pretty, yet she didn’t seem to care. She was all around weird.

  “It’s poetry. ’Course, you’d have to actually be able to read to know that. How was summer school?” Jane asked coolly.

  Maureen flushed; she had indeed been forced to take summer school to catch up on her grades. Everybody knew Jane was a superbrain.

  “Great,” she lied. “And you know, there were boys there. Not something you’d know a lot about.”

  “Not interested,” Jane replied.

  “That’s right. They aren’t.” A rather smart insult from Maureen; she tossed her hair proudly.“You never sent Julie a birthday card, Miss Fish ’n’ Chips. People notice these things.”

  “That’s because I can’t stand Julie.”

  Maureen bridled. “You’d better watch yourself.We can make life very hard for you in this school. If you want to be picked for any teams, or sit with anybody, or get a part in the play, or go to parties …”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t.” Jane Morgan snapped the book shut. “That’s what you don’t get. So tell me again why I should give a damn what you think?”

  “Watch yourself, weirdo,” Maureen repeated, and stalked off. Damn! That ugly Brit. She was so arrogant. Every year she managed to survive the worst they could throw at her. She should have been hounded out of Miss Milton’s by now. Of course, Maureen, Julie, and everybody else knew why it hadn’t happened. One word.

  Sally.

  Sally. The country bumpkin. The dumb blonde with the stupid Texas twang, Barbie hair, and outrageous curves. A few more years and she could be starring in The Dukes of Hazzard as a blonde Daisy.There was nothing hip about Sally, nothing cool. She didn’t listen to the Beastie Boys or Mötley Crüe. She always had that boring-ass country and western playing. She didn’t wear the right clothes—no black leather jackets with metal studs, no fingerless black lace gloves, no tights in exotic spiderweb patterns.

  But Sally had two things in her favor (at least, Maureen only admitted to two). First, she was rich. And not just film-biz, garden-variety Beverly Hills rich like most of them, with their daddies working producers, driving Mercedeses and flying business class. No, Sally’s family was Money with a capital M. Her pa was in the oil business, and had long ago stopped counting his wealth in millions. Estimates in school varied from one billion to four.

  One thing was definite. Her daddy could buy all their daddies ten times over and still have plenty to spare.

  Insults to Sally Lassiter were muted. Even the daughters of studio heads had to mind their manners.

  And two—even worse—Sally was gorgeous.You could sneer—and they did.

  Dumb blonde.

  Texas rose.

  Bimbo.

  Cheerleader.

  Yet their own reluctant eyes, and their brothers’ admiring stares, confirmed that Sally Lassiter’s looks were devastating. Her skin glowed, warm and tanned. Her long, rich-girl blonde hair was glossy and smooth like a Timotei commercial. She had coltish legs, slender arms, large, bright blue eyes, and, over the whole package, a white-toothed, milky, all-American wholesomeness. She was always smiling, always upbeat; narrow waisted, but with large breasts and a tight, curvy butt that suggested she was fit and healthy, and someday would make a good-looking mom of good-looking babies; when she laughed, she lit up the entire room.

  Sally made sophistication and cynicism seem like a waste of time.

  She was the best-looking girl in the school. Some thought she was the best-looking girl in the city.

  So she wasn’t a brainiac. So what? She was an only child, heir to a vast fortune. And it seemed so unfair, Maureen thought, absently touching her own rather bulbous nose, that she wouldn’t even have to waste any of it on plastic surgery.

  It was hard to condescend to a girl like Sally. Richer and prettier than you, of course she had confidence. Buckets of it.

  Yeah, she was a dumb hick; they all thought that, sometimes even dared to say so. But Sally just smiled. She knew she was untouchable, Maureen thought, knew she was better than all of them. It was so unfair! She didn’t even work at being popular; she didn’t have to navigate high school politics. Instead, she just went her own sweet way. And they had the uncomfortable feeling that all the time they were laughing at Sally Lassiter, the Texas honey was laughing right back.

  And of course, if she wasn’t smart, she had a friend who was.

  Jane Morgan.

  They made such an unlikely duo. Best friends as long as anybody could remember, yet totally different. Jane was, in Miss Milton terms, a nobody. Her folks had no cash; her fees were all paid by the British Embassy. She was doing this on the taxpayer’s dime. She wasn’t pretty, either, no style, no hipness to her whatsoever. Jane was a real little bookworm; unsuited to the sun, sea, sex of L.A., the hot, dusty city of perfect bods and shiny cars. She lived an internal life, always in the library, studying; no crushes on actors, no gossip about boys—like they’d be interested in her. She was Miss Ice Maiden.

  Jane Morgan would have made an easy target. She didn’t have Sally’s weapons. Status, sure; her daddy was practically royal, and the cars that picked her up sometimes had little fluttering flags on the front, which was cool. But this wasn’t Washington. It didn’t count for a whole lot, not like having a movie with boffo opening numbers, owning a magazine, or being a top-notch sports agent, like Maureen’s father.

  Yet they could not touch her. Sally protected her. And as long as they stayed friends, together those two girls were so much more than the sum of their parts. Julie Manners said—damn, all the time—that Sally and Jane were like a jigsaw puzzle. They made no sense on their own, but together they were unstoppable.

  Jane had the brains.

  Sally had the looks.

  Jane had that smart mouth.

  Sally was loaded.

  Maureen had to admit they made a hell of a team.

  Jane watched, carefully, as Maureen’s tense back receded into the distance, joining the throng of girls hanging around Julie. It wasn’t till Maureen was safely out of reach that she could breathe a sigh of relief.

  Not that she would let it show. No way; never. Jane Morgan had no truck with weakness. But she was unhappy, even depressed.

  Another bloody term, stuck in this shithole. With no decent teachers and no good courses. Girls went to Miss Milton’s for one thing—social cachet. How the hell would she get into Oxford or Cambridge after studying at this dump?

  She shut her book with a snap and buried her dark head in her hands.

  Trouble with being clever, it was harder to deceive yourself. Of course the lack of academic standards was a problem for an ambitious student. But that wasn’t why she was unhappy….

  Jane looked wistfully at the laughing, jostling crowd surrounding Julie Manners and wished she was the other girl. Just once.What would that be like? To be popular … to have people fighting for your attention. She had never had that, never, not as long as she’d lived.

  She looked at the front gate, her knuckles tightening on her book, hoping to see a limo pull up. She had never wanted to see Sal as much as she did right now. The warmth of that smile, the native happiness, might pull her up a little. As long as she had Sally, it wasn’t all black.

  But Sally wasn’t here yet. And as she sat by herself in the courtyard, pretending to be absorbed in her reading, young Jane Morgan felt a wave of loneliness crash over her. It was a wretched feeling, and
she lifted her head, jutting her chin up, as though she were in danger of drowning.

  Her dad. His Excellency, the Hon. Thomas Morgan. Jane thought of him, smiling that politician’s smile at her. As she tried to persuade him to stay with her, to want her close … to love her, just a little, the way she loved him, always had; a child’s needy love, that was still unrequited.

  “But Daddy … I really hate that school.”

  She’d been hovering on the landing, at the top of the stairs, her suitcases all packed and in the limo already.

  “We all hate school, darling.” He gave her an absentminded kiss.

  “But I want to be with you.” Jane’s words tumbled out, eager, desperate, although she’d promised herself she wouldn’t beg. “I want to stay here—in Washington.”

  “No, you should mix in other surroundings. The political hothouse …” He waved his hands vaguely. “Not good for teenagers. And I’m so busy, you’d never see me. Going away to school is best.We did it in my day.”

  “I live in a rented house, with Consuela.”

  “Same thing,” he lied. “Now run along, darling, your driver’s been waiting ten minutes already.”

  “But … Dad.” Her voice was already pleading, whiny. “If I were here, you could see me more. And you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “Of course I would.” His voice softened, just a fraction, and he leaned over and kissed her on the forehead; a brief touch, but manna to Jane. She wanted desperately to hug him, but he pulled back, and his clear gray eyes regained their professional detachment. “And I’ll see you this summer, sweetheart.”

  Sweetheart. Darling. If only that were true.

  But Jane Morgan squared her slim shoulders and pasted on a smile, as brisk and impersonal as Daddy’s always were.

  “Okay. See you then,” she said, and gave him a hug; he patted her stiffly on the back. “Love you, Daddy.”

  “Love you, too, Jane.”

  As she walked down the stairs, she heard him turn and go back to his office. He didn’t even wait to wave good-bye to her.

  The memory was bitter. And she had chewed on it, like a foul herb, all the way to the airport, and then all the way to the smart, lonely rented house she lived in when she was at school. There was a mixture of longing and loathing when she thought about the school; bleak despair at yet another term of being the outsider, the outcast; her life sometimes seemed like one long story of rejection. And yet, that bright spot, her best friend; Sally, who was the closest thing, Jane sometimes thought, that she had to real family; Sally, who was almost a sister.