Glamour

by Louise Bagshawe

  Haya called her father. They had a long, stilted conversation. She decided to avoid talking about the marriage. What was the use? He would only act defensive. Instead, Haya demanded her father’s assistance.

  That was the price of forgiveness. She didn’t say it openly, but they both understood it just the same.

  Baba, chastened by her tone, promised he would help. He could set up some meetings, talk to some people who knew people, that sort of thing. There were exhibitions—trade fairs. Retailers, although many of them already had suppliers …

  “We will undercut their suppliers,” Haya said, ruthlessly. “Tell them that.”

  Ahmed, overhearing, grinned.“And once they’re hooked, the price goes up.”

  He kissed his wife on the forehead. She was intelligent, and now she was a true help to him. No more long nights grappling with his books in the fading light. No more riffling through his papers to find the right number. She had even helped him with his taxes.

  He liked it. Last week,Ahmed had gone on an acquisition trip to Fez and, without rushing things the way he was used to, had picked up better stock at lower prices.

  And it turned him on to see his intelligent, dark-haired wife, the scarf draped modestly over her hair, concentrating on the figures, her fingers flashing over the keyboard. She was not one to stay at home, or spend her days gossiping with friends. She engaged with the world, and her spirit was fiery, the same fire that clawed at him and writhed under him in their marriage bed….

  It was his business, of course; he was in charge. But Haya argued her case, and Ahmed listened to her.

  “I have some ideas,” Haya said one evening after a fine sale. Ahmed had won an order from an Egyptian hotel chain in Sharm el-Sheik, a large order for its lobbies and conference rooms; he had supplied pieces worth forty thousand dollars.They were flush with cash. He had been half expecting her to pounce on it.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Business ideas. I think you should change.”

  “Change?” Ahmed blinked. “Change what? This works, my love. I’ve been doing it since I was younger than you.”

  “Not the goods … well, maybe. Maybe we could diversify.” Ahmed frowned at that, so she hurried on. “But I think you should find a new way to sell. Don’t deal with these little people. They are not worth your time, my sweetheart.” She kissed his arm through the fabric of his shirt. “You need to do it differently … to sell these beautiful carpets the way they are meant to be sold. Each individually. Displayed like a jewel.We need to find more customers like the hotels, and fewer like Begum Sistani.” The rich, fat widow of the interior minister, who always came back to them when she bought a new villa or Parisian apartment, probably with ill-gotten gains from the taxpayer.

  Ahmed was listening, she saw. Emboldened, she plowed on. “And given space in windows … and each one selling for many, many thousands. Why should you not be like the owner of a gallery?” Her Arabic was rough, but she continued. “They give stories to their artwork. Provenance … catalogues. You can sell your carpets that way. They are all unique. Why should arrogant tourists from Europe, with no appreciation of them, buy them and place them in their homes?”

  He smiled, intrigued.

  “And how would you propose to do this?”

  “We must export,” she said, confidently. “To America. To the quality stores. Perhaps first to a gallery. Somewhere very expensive.” Haya switched to English. “You know that American expression? ‘Sell the sizzle, not the steak.’ My friend Sally taught me that.”

  He chuckled. “I like that.”

  “I can help,” she insisted.“I speak perfect English. I also know them … the richest Americans; what they want, what sells to them. Let me be your export director. Let me work for you.”

  Ahmed’s arm stole around her waist. “You do work for me.”

  “That’s not work.”

  “And I told you, I don’t want you leaving me for the States. Even for a week.”

  “Then come with me,” she said persuasively.“Come with me. I can teach you better English.The same way you teach me Arabic … and I know people. I’ve spoken to my father… .”

  He thought about it. “You really think I could sell these better?”

  “No question,” she said confidently.

  Ahmed leaned down and kissed her, hard, on the lips. “Then let us try it,” he said.

  He believed in his wife. She was young, but she was brilliant. There was that core in her that a man could rely on.

  They could be partners in business, as well as in life. Let her give him that start, and he would take over. Soon, anyway, she would be preoccupied in the nursery.

  “Can I call home again?” Haya said, beaming.

  He was mildly offended. “I’ve never stopped you.”

  “Then you have no objection. I can tell Baba we’re coming?”

  Ahmed leaned in to her. “Since almost the first night, I believed in you, Haya. Let’s try it.”

  CHAPTER 7

  It was amazing how fast the whole thing happened.

  Her father’s death. Leaked, by somebody in that scum-sucking nest of lawyers. On the radio. It hit the TV before anybody placed a call to Green Gables. Mona had been in the beauty parlor … her chauffeur had hustled her out, and as they drove home, her sobbing mother was chased by the paparazzi.

  Sally herself refused to believe it. She’d rushed out of school—nobody daring to tease her, not even Julie, not that day, at least—demanding loudly to talk to the police, then calling them liars as they tried to pass on the news.

  As long as she lived, Sally would never forget that day. The howling rage of her loss, the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. The photographers, like locusts, camped outside the brass gates of her house; news helicopters chopping loudly overhead, their intrusive spotlights beaming down into their lawns. Rushing in to hug her wailing, disintegrating mother, turning off the TV that showed her father’s ample body being loaded onto a gurney, wrapped up in a blue tarpaulin.

  “They shouted at me,” Mona choked out. “They called me ‘the merry widow.’ ”

  Even in her grief, Sally had felt the rage, rising, blocking the air from her throat so she could hardly breathe. Bastards! Some wiseass had yelled her way, when her white car was entering the gates, “Hey, baby! Are you the richest heiress in America!”

  What the hell did he know, she thought, tears brimming up and helplessly tumbling down her cheeks. Didn’t he understand she didn’t give a damn about money? That she’d trade every red cent for one more minute with her daddy’s arms around her?

  For the first time in her golden, charmed life, Sally Lassiter’s devastation overwhelmed her. Every moment, thinking how that was it, she’d never speak to her father again. Not in this world. Not for all the days of her life. He’d never walk her down the aisle, never hold her children….

  It was bad.The pain was a hurricane, battering at the hatches of her heart and dignity.

  And it was all about to get much, much worse.

  The next months were a haze of pain and fear. First the funeral—long-lost relatives, people Sally never saw from one end of the year to another, crawling out of the woodwork; charities, colleges, lobbyists, all calling with their palms out, grubbing for cash. Sally, throwing dirt and a rose onto Daddy’s coffin.Walking away from that gravesite.Trying to support her mother, who was starting to fall apart.

  And after that grim event, worse to come.The lawyers—first her own, then the government’s. And the companies.The executors, and the insurers …

  Her father, she discovered, was accused. Fraud and embezzlement on a massive scale.Thousands of workers who had lost their pensions, ordinary families bankrupt. Her mother—who could hardly sleep, and at times barely dress herself, who had stopped washing, or brushing her teeth, or combing her hair—Sally took care of her as though she were a child. Her mother offered nothing but a blank,Valium-induced stare.

  And so the police and
the investigators talked to Sally. And roamed through her house. Rifled everywhere, like burglars, looking for documents. Took away every computer. Impounded her parents’ cars.

  She dropped out of school, and hired her own lawyer. Not for long, though; the federal government froze their bank accounts. And the worst thing was that, as she forced herself to watch the news, long after Mona had crawled into bed, Sally couldn’t blame them.

  Sick with dismay, she was forced to confront the idea that her father might have been a crook … that the luxury they lived in might have been built on the suffering of others. Her father’s lawyer, Lionel Javits, promised her privately it was not that way, and Sally clung to that.

  “He died right in front of me.You could say of shock.”

  “Shock,” Sally repeated.

  The lawyer spoke compassionately, but slowly, as though she were stupid; he does think I’m dumb, Sally’s brain told her. Dumb blonde.The old classic.

  “There were thieves in that company, miss, but your dad wasn’t one of ’em.”

  “And this house?”

  He flinched away from her cool gaze and stared at his hands.

  “Please tell me the truth, Mr. Javits,” Sally said, her soft Texan tones demanding his respect. “My mother’s having a hard time with this. The police and FBI come around here every day. The staff already quit because I can’t pay their wages. Tell me what’s going on, and I can make a plan to deal with it.”

  That impressed him—his own children, his teenage boys with their Metallica jackets and studs in the ears, they would never be able to cope, never be as strong as this young woman with the weight of the world dropped on her slender shoulders.

  “It’s not something you can make a plan for.Your father didn’t realize, but the oil profits that paid for this estate were built on paper.What my office is hearing is that the government is about to repossess.”

  “Can we fight that?”

  “Not in my judgment. They’ve seized all the liquid assets of the estate.This is next. No lawyer can make a case that this …” He waved a hand inadequately around the vastness of their kitchen. “That this is necessary as a dwelling.”

  Sally drew herself up. “I see.” She paused, mulling it over, the dreadful news in all its bitterness. “And what will they leave us with?”

  “Nigel Farrar is the prosecutor. He’s oily, looks slick on TV, wants to run for Congress …”

  “Wants to look tough on criminals?”

  Javits nodded. “I’m very sorry, but he gets good press if you and your mother are left with nothing.” He sighed. “Like all the other Lassiter Oil families.”

  “Nothing? No settlement?”

  “He has an excellent case. The longer you drag it out, the better he likes it.Your mother can try innocent spouse relief, but they’ll never let you keep above a token amount… .”

  Sally stood up. “When are they going to do this to us?”

  “Maybe next week. Is there somewhere else you can go?”

  “You mean that Daddy didn’t own this? Not really?”

  “Believe me, Sally, Nigel Farrar wants a circus. I think you should do your best to get out of here. Go stay with friends.”

  Ouch.That cut. Friends.Where were they?

  Helen had run off to get married, and Jane—Jane was dealing with her own troubles. Sally felt the abandonment almost physically.

  “I tell you what,” she said, slowly. “Can you negotiate with them for me? My mom’s got some jewelry… .”

  “Anything Mr. Lassiter gave her is forfeit.”

  “No. Her own. She was a society belle back home. Brought some into the marriage.” Sally almost choked on it. “I have a diamond brooch I can give you for a fee.You go to the prosecutor and get us free and clear on my mother’s personal savings account—that was frozen, too. It was a dowry, she never touched it.There’s fifty thousand dollars in there.”

  Fifty thousand—that used to be the wages of their live-in chef. All of a sudden, it looked like it was all she had left in the world.

  “I can do that.” Javits thought about offering to represent her pro bono, but he was not a strong man, and it wouldn’t have looked good. He didn’t want to damage his reputation.

  “Thank you,” the glorious blonde creature said, with a calm smile that made him feel four feet tall.

  “Where will you go?” he asked, wretchedly.

  “My father’s niece is in Texas. We’ll go live near her. It’s a small town, very quiet.” Cheap too, Sally didn’t say. “I’ll go get that diamond pin for you, Mr. Javits, and you get that account unlocked.”

  Javits worked fast. And so did Sally. Once her mind was made up, there was nothing more to do. She called Jane, asked her to hire a car and come round and help her pack.

  “I’m so sorry.” Jane stood by, feeling useless, as Sally packed up her suitcases with a brisk efficiency that Jane had never known.

  “Wasn’t your fault.” Red-eyed, her friend bent down and zipped up the last of the cases. “And I’m so sorry for what happened to your father, too.”

  “Yeah, well,” Jane said, her throat dry. “I never had much of a dad to start with.”

  “My daddy was perfect.” Sally bit down hard on her lip, and Jane turned away so she could compose herself. After a moment’s struggle, she straightened herself, and surveyed her room; all mind-blowing luxury, a Barbie palace, with designer dresses, pink silk walls, a four-poster bed, enough sweetness to give you a toothache.The ultimate girlie paradise.

  “You’re strong,” Sally said. “Give me a hand to load up these cases, hon?”

  Jane hesitated. “But we’re not done packing.”

  “Yes, we are.”

  “We need another case—your toys, your bear… .” She held up the much-loved fluffy brown teddy with the lopsided eye. “You can’t leave Mr. Snuffles, Sal. Come on!”

  Her friend shook her head and lifted the largest suitcase.

  “Yes, I can.” She nodded for Jane to do the same.“I don’t need him anymore. My childhood is over. It’s time to grow up.”

  The girls lugged the heavy cases down the long stairs, one by one, and loaded them into the back of the rented van.

  “Long drive,” Jane observed. “Sure you won’t fly?”

  “I don’t want to face them at the airport.” They both knew she was talking about reporters.“By the time we get to Texas, this story will be done. Something else will have happened. I don’t need to expose Momma to a plane full of angry people.”

  In truth, Sally didn’t want to expose her mother to people, period. Mona was losing it, and she couldn’t bear for her to be seen in public.

  “So what about you?” Anything to change the subject. She dragged her thoughts away from her disintegrating mother, and fixed her pretty blue eyes on Jane. “The embassy made you an offer… .”

  “I’m still a teen.”

  “Right.” Sally hopped from foot to foot. She wanted to get the hell in the car, get in and drive, go and wake her mother from the drunken stupor she was doubtless sunk into.

  But that would be so final. Texas. She might as well be in outer space.

  “Hey.” Jane read her thoughts. “We’re best friends. We’ll find each other.”

  “And Helen?”

  “When she finishes her honeymoon she’ll be in touch.You bet.”

  “Friends forever,” Sally said. She tried for brave, but her voice quivered.

  “Forever,” Jane repeated. She enveloped Sally in a big bear hug, and, so unlike her, gave her a little kiss on the cheek.

  “I’ll go get my mom. I better scoot. I hate good-byes.”

  “This isn’t good-bye,” Jane insisted. “It’s ‘see you later.’ ”

  Sally nodded, not trusting herself to say anything else, and ran back into Green Gables to find her mother.

  When she was out of sight, Jane quietly crept in behind her. She walked up to Sally’s room, retrieved the teddy bear, and came back to the van, slipping i
t into the largest case.

  She wanted Sal to have a friend. Because right now, she thought she’d never see her again.

  “Well, now.” Emily Harris glanced from Sally to Mona, and Sally squirmed inwardly. She’d done her best to clean her mother up this morning, before they checked out of the final hotel; forcing her to brush her teeth and swig with mouthwash, although she suspected Mona was swallowing the minty stuff just to get the alcohol; eight percent, as good as beer. Washing her hair was a no-go—Sally wasn’t strong enough to physically wrestle her mother, so she had to make do with scarfing a brush through it, tying it into a ponytail, and dousing it with hairspray. At least that should take care of some of the dirty, sweaty smell. Mona had agreed to get in the shower; a small mercy, though Sally looked and saw she wasn’t washing, just standing there, slumped against a wall, as the water sluiced over her.

  In truth, Sally was frightened. Her mother’s depression had turned her into another person. A helpless, sick person, listless and lifeless. If her mom had her way, she’d never even get out of bed.

  The speed and shock of loss was too much for her mother to deal with. The loss of the only man she’d ever loved had devastated Mona, but then came everything else on top, and it finished her. The scandal, the shame … TV headlines … and all her fair-weather friends melting away like New York slush in April.

  As the money vanished, so did Mona’s support network. Half of them dropped her before the funeral, afraid to be pictured on the news at the graveside of a world-class crook. The other half vanished one by one as the lawyers and federal government closed down their accounts. Besides her supposed best friends, Lucille and Kimberley, Susan Ermine, wife of a senator, suddenly discovered she had to be in Washington. Milly Fawcett and her husband disappeared on a ‘round the world’ cruise. Lola Montez actually called Mona, said the family had deceived them and they were no longer friends. Her mother had cried then, shocked for a second out of her apathy. But Sally was fiercely grateful to Lola. At least that one had some guts. At least she’d told them the truth.

  The Lassiters, once the billionaire kings of Beverly Hills, were pariahs. And Sally could see the same wary, disgusted look in the eyes of her cousin Emily. Dad’s niece had married exceptionally well—into an old Carolina family—and disapproved of Mona, the brash, working-class barmaid that Paulie Lassiter had plucked out of the gutter twenty years ago.