Glamour

by Louise Bagshawe

  The plane halted and shuddered to a stop. Levin was up instantly, retrieving his briefcase and handing her her bag. Jane felt a huge sense of aggravation and loss; the flight was done, he was gone; she had been a pretty distraction, and now she would never see him again.

  Her pride would not let her say a word.

  “You have no idea whether I’m attracted to you or not,” she hissed in a low voice.

  He leaned down, in to her, where she was sitting in her seat and he was standing, and placed his mouth to her ear, so none of the businessmen milling around them could hear.

  “Of course I do.”

  Jane bit her lip. She had never come across a man like Levin. God help her, his self-confidence was sexy. She knit her hands in her lap.

  “Here.” He offered her a business card. “Good-bye, Jane Morgan.”

  She took the card. Of course, she ought to have shredded it to confetti in front of him. But instead, she slipped it into a jacket pocket.

  Levin’s hand reached out, and a callused fingertip casually, secretively, traced a line across her neck down to her shoulder.

  It was electric. Jane, helplessly, reacted; her body shuddered, and she had to grip the sides of her seat to prevent anybody else from seeing her reaction. She blushed, hot with shame and wanting him, and waited it out.

  And in a few seconds he was gone. Front of the line; he left the plane without looking back. Jane had arrived in Los Angeles the way she had left it … on her own.

  “Momma.” Sally knocked on her mother’s door. Two weeks back from rehab, and Mona was spending all day in bed. “Momma—what do you think?”

  “What? I’m tired.”

  Yeah, she was always tired.

  “I want to show you these new sketches.” Sally was determined to have her mother awake, and aware of the wider world. “What do you think?”

  She was sure these were the best yet. A short sheath dress in buttercup yellow, with a careful ruched neckline and cinched at the waist. A business suit with sass—tailored jacket and kicky pleated skirt. A little navy dress with cap sleeves, full skirted, fitted at the waist and bodice—something for the girl who could no longer go strapless.

  And in addition, Sally had come up with jewelry. Forget minimalist—she was maximalist. Her designs glittered and sparkled with rhinestones and cheap semiprecious jewels.

  “Very nice.” Mona wasn’t even looking.

  “Would you like to go for a walk, Momma?”

  “Nobody walks in L.A.”

  “Well, when I get back, I’ll drive you to the beach,” Sally said firmly. She was determined to get Mona out of the house.

  “Where are you going?” Her mother was using that whiny, tearful voice again.

  “I told you yesterday, I have an appointment. At DeMarco’s.”

  “Okay, well, good luck. I hope they have some positions.You could be a girl on the makeup counter,” Mona said, tiredly, and closed the door.

  Sal shook her head and went back into the living room. She gathered up her sketches and the two pieces she’d actually run up herself. The first was her favorite skirt, a wild little thing in blue satin with a scalloped hem, bias-cut and full of motion.The second, a necklace, one she’d crafted very carefully: little round pebbles of semiprecious jewels, with a letter carved into each one; they spelled out LUCKY. She’d strung them on a silver chain, since she hadn’t been able to afford a gold one.

  They were good, she knew that. Stylish, and hot. Something a little different. She would wear them—any young girl would.

  So far, it had been tough—buyers refusing even to see her stuff. But after weeks of badgering, Ollie Foster at DeMarco’s had agreed to give her five minutes.

  This was gonna be it. Her lucky break!

  “So you can see the movement.” Sally smiled and turned the skirt around, letting the hem flare out in the breeze. “And these stones—they’re designed to be sold individually, with a chain. You can make your own message. It’s like jewelry as pizza, you pay for each topping.They’re like candy, no girl will resist.”

  “Interesting.” Foster steepled his fingers automatically and moistened his lips. She noticed his eyes roaming across her ample breasts and steeled herself not to stiffen. “You got anything else to show me, baby? It’s hard to break in to sales in this town—real hard.”

  “I have these sketches… .”

  “I’m not talking ’bout sketches. Why don’t you slip into the changing rooms with me and model that skirt?You know—show me something. Got a cute little ass on you, girl. If you want a deal here, you know what you got to do… .”

  Sally snatched her necklace back and turned on her heel. Sleazeball! Her eyes filled with tears.

  “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” he shouted. “I got connections, girl. All the other big stores in this town. You gotta learn to play nice if you want to be in the game… .”

  But she was already gone.

  Sally didn’t go home. She couldn’t bear to go home and deal with her soporific mother. She was back here on her own turf; she had to make something happen….

  Screw it, she thought, with uncharacteristic passion. Screw them all. The lechers and the sexists and the ones who just didn’t care enough to even give her a chance.

  So nobody was going to help her? She’d do it herself.

  Wiping the tears away, Sally walked from DeMarco’s down Melrose. It was a long walk, hot, but she didn’t care. Here was the epicenter of L.A. hip. All little biker bars, leather clothing stores, gothic fashion, witchcraft shops, and palm readers.

  She found a place—Fine Fashions, it said—an optimistic name. Run-down and seedy, it was flogging racks of discount T-shirts from Taiwan at five bucks a throw, plastic earrings, and elasticized bracelets.

  There was nobody in the store. It was a decent location; halfway up Melrose with an empty parking lot across the street.

  For the first time since she’d gotten home, Sally felt a thrill of excitement.

  She marched inside. Behind the counter was a little Korean woman, looking bored and reading a magazine.

  “Hi,” said Sally. “This your place?”

  The woman was instantly defensive.“We paid that fine, if you from city hall.”

  “I’m not. I need a shop. How long is your lease?”

  “Six months.”

  “I’ll buy it out. Fifteen hundred a month.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You serious, lady?”

  “Totally serious. Another three grand for the fixtures and the stock.”

  “I want five.”

  “Don’t push it,” Sally said. “Your place ain’t up to much, ma’am; I’m surely saving y’all from foreclosure. This way you keep a good credit rating, you can start over someplace else.”

  “When you bring money?”

  “You call your lawyer, I’ll be back here at two with a cashier’s check and a contract.” Sally had another idea. “You know any seamstresses? I need to hire some ladies who know how to cut and sew patterns.”

  “Of course. Plenty.”

  “This afternoon I’ll be hiring. I need four women.You could bring them with you.”

  “Okay.” The woman shrugged. “This a rough spot, lady, lots of clothes shops, not enough customers.” She waved at Sally’s neat little dress and chic platform shoes. “But you rich, you can afford it. Learn the hard way.”

  Sally smiled, her first real smile in a long time.

  “See you at two,” she said, and left to find some walk-in lawyer.

  “So this is what we’re going to do.” Sally smiled at the women; as of now, her employees. “Cut one shoulder off every shirt. Neckline diagonal. And slash the hem like so.” She showed them her flame design.“Then sew it back up.You see the pattern? I pay minimum wage plus a dollar. Once this stock is sold out, we’ll get health coverage.”

  An older lady with bags under her eyes spoke up; Sally could see she was used to life in a sweatshop.

  “Heal
th?” she asked. “For real?”

  “For real. And there’s an hour for lunch; I’ll get us sandwiches and coffee.We’re in this together, ladies.” Sally’s warm Texas drawl encouraged them. “Do you think you can handle it?”

  “Yes,” the woman said, smiling weakly.

  “Yes, miss,” another of them said, looking hopeful. “Here”—and she took a large, square, raspberry T-shirt, applied Sally’s pattern, and started to cut.

  “L.A. Citizen. Editorial.”

  “Can I speak to Mike Reardon?”

  Sally gripped the phone. This was it—she was going all out. But she had no choice. Hiring the staff, buying the lease—their money had almost gone. She had the stock now. Now it was all about sales.

  She was about to expose herself. And maybe Momma. But it was do-or-die time.

  “Editor’s office. Janice speaking.Who’s calling?”

  “This is Sally Lassiter.”

  “From what company?” asked the bored assistant.

  “I’m the daughter of Paulie Lassiter—you remember, the oilman whose company went bust and he died of a heart attack? Big story. Front-page stuff.”

  “Okay …”

  “Mom and I fled to Texas in disgrace.” It stung, but she forced herself to say it. Reardon would see her as a human-interest story or not at all. “Now I’m back in L.A. and I want to give an interview. Tell our side of the story.” She gave her their number. “Have him call me back on this number if he’s interested in doing a feature. Good-bye.”

  Sally hung up and headed to the kitchen to make coffee, but she didn’t have long to wait; she had only opened the jar when the phone rang.

  “Is this really Sally Lassiter?”

  “It sure is.” She tried to sound confident. “I’m prepared to offer you a deal, Mr. Reardon.”

  “We don’t pay for interviews, Ms. Lassiter, company policy.”

  “Not what I’m looking for. I’ve started a little store—my designs. I need the publicity.You come and do a feature on me, you include mention of the store and shots of my T-shirts. I’ll pose in some of my clothes. I’m not asking for a puff piece—review them however you like.” He started to say something, but Sally cut him off. “I’ll give you what you’re looking for—plenty of emotional stuff about Dad and being poor, public school and taking the bus. All I want in exchange is the PR.” She paused. “Well?”

  Reardon chuckled. “You’ve got guts, young lady. I’ll take that deal. But beware—we don’t puff, either, I leave that to Vanity Fair. If your clothes suck, my journalist is gonna say so.”

  “Fine with me.” Sally was elated. “Let’s do it.”

  “When?”

  “Now.” She gave him the address.“I’ll be at the store in twenty minutes.”

  Sally made them take the photos first. She knew after she’d been speaking to the journalist her eyes would be red. Better get the shots out of the way while she could. She posed, sexy but demure, in her little blue skirt and a white cutoff T-shirt that showed her tan, long blonde hair flowing loose around her waist, nails with a simple French polish, her blue eyes laughing.

  The photographer, a woman, sighed with pleasure.“You look amazing, girlfriend.”

  The interviewer, wearing the skinny black jeans and white buttoned shirt of a fashion maven, was bespectacled and serious. Sally poured her heart out: she sobbed, she railed at Miss Milton’s lack of support, she castigated her mother’s friends. Explosive stuff; she needed it to be.

  This had to make the paper.

  “I’m filing it this afternoon.” The journalist clicked the off button on her tape recorder, clearly impressed.“And, Sally, I think your T-shirts are hot. So sexy. Plus, I adore those beads.”

  “Here.” Sally jumped to her feet, collected a handful, and strung her a necklace. “It says ‘Annalise.’ ” Her name. “That’s yours—if you like it, maybe you’ll wear it, tell your friends.”

  “Maybe.” She smiled. “This piece runs on Sunday—if I were you I’d stay open that day.”

  The next morning was Thursday. Sally came to work to find her store already full; Koko, her Algerian counter girl, had opened early.

  “There was a crowd outside.”

  The journalist had brought her friends.

  As the chic young women, whom Sally pegged as grad students, lawyers, bankers’ wives—nonindustry, civilian Angelenas—shopped, running through her stock like locusts, Sally reflected you could be big in this town if you were hip and you were first. The rich girls wanted a jump on the hoi polloi who’d come here Sunday, when the Citizen ran the piece.

  At the end of the day she was already showing a month’s profit. She gave the girls a tiny bonus: fifty bucks apiece, all she could afford.

  “There’ll be more later.”

  They laughed and hugged her, eyes bright with tears. Sally got the feeling her workers didn’t often see fifty dollars all at once.

  It gave her a thrill. Finally, her own money. Her own style. Her own success.

  On Sunday, the piece came out. She didn’t read it; no desire to relive that harrowing shit all over again. She just looked at the pictures: herself, golden, laughing, twenty and supremely beautiful, with her kicky little skirt and innate confidence.

  Annalise, the journalist, had pegged it. Sally’s shop was swarming with visitors.They sold almost every T-shirt, and the jewelry was gone in three hours.

  After that, she started taking orders. Payment up front, delivery in two weeks; wait list only.

  Sally Lassiter was still small-time. She didn’t kid herself. But she was also a success.

  Helen stood up, gingerly. She was only five months along, but her feet were still swelling. She walked into her garden, her embroidered slippers flip-flopping carefully.

  Her stomach was churning—and it wasn’t her baby.That was Sally, her Sally, in the papers. Haya had discovered at long last what had happened to her friends; and she hadn’t been there for them; she had been half a world away, sweating out her pleasure in the grip of Ahmed’s arms.

  They must have felt it as a betrayal. And in a way, she knew, it was. She hadn’t tried to find them, even when she got back to America. She had been so lost in her husband, in what he was doing—and after he died, just lost.

  And now—here was Sally. And Sally looked so beautiful! Tragedy had burned some determination into her face, made her all-American good looks that little bit deeper.

  The clothes looked good on her body.There was fit, elegance, a bit of sassiness that squeezed at Haya’s heart—all Sally, big-hearted, optimistic, golden Sally. And she hadn’t given up, she was just clawing her way back in.The Citizen gave her designs a rave review.The girl was doing well.

  Haya’s heart beat a little faster, with pure nerves. But she steeled herself. She would go to see Sally. If her old friend was furious, damned her to hell for not being there, Haya would understand. How must it look … like Haya had dumped her as soon as she lost her money.

  But there were few people, now, Haya liked in this world. Of course she still loved Baba and Mama; but right now, she didn’t like them very much. And maybe there were others she could have forged a relationship with, but she’d kept her distance. Hadn’t wanted to tell anybody yet that she was pregnant.

  Sally Lassiter was different. Haya picked up the paper again, and committed the address to her memory. Melrose—right.

  “Thank you so much.”

  “Really—it’s fabulous. And I’ll take twenty in each color. Just mail them to my billing address.”

  “I will ma’am, thank you.” Sally gave her the patented smile.

  “Your stuff is just terrific,” the fat lady said, and sailed magnificently out of the room, like a galleon under full sail.

  Sally sighed with relief. That was it; the society wife was the last customer. Not that she minded sales, but her heels, dizzy five-inch Manolos, were killing her.

  With the first little bit of money, Sally had bought herself a killer wardrob
e.

  That was even more important than a new house, because it was business. They’d all read the Citizen article. Half of her customers were rubberneckers—there to see her.The golden girl down at the heels. Paulie Lassiter’s daughter, starting over.

  Fuck it. Sally played the cards she was dealt. If they came to see her, then she was the product. Everything she sold reflected her. And that meant being one hundred percent glamorous, at all times.

  She added platinum highlights to her butterscotch hair. She deepened her tan with lotions. She wore Manolos on her feet—nothing else. Only her own line of jewelry—her necklace read, SuRvIvOR—and her own designer clothes. Sally got her teeth whitened, and wore perfume at all times, even to bed. Glamour, she told herself, was a state of mind.

  Beauty and style were like athleticism.They required practice and endless conditioning. If there was one thing Sally Lassiter knew, it was how to be a star.

  And the customers drooled over it.

  She nodded to Koko to lock up and gratefully slid her stockinged feet out of her narrow-toed shoes.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Are you open?”

  “Sorry, miss. No.Tomorrow, nine a.m.,” Koko said.

  “I wanted to see Sally Lassiter.”

  At the sound of that voice, Sally froze. “Wait—Koko, wait. Helen? Is that you?”

  “Yes… .”

  “My God! Koko, let her in!”

  Haya walked in. She was lovely: she wore a long dress, a little shapeless, with gold embroidery stitched across the azure blue cloth; her hair was curled softly just to her shoulders; and her skin was luminous.

  “Sally!” she said. She gasped with joy. “Sally! It’s you, mash’Allah, it’s really you! I—I can’t believe it!”

  Sally squealed, like the girl she once was, then put one manicured hand on the countertop and jumped over it, flinging herself into Haya’s arms.

  “Helen! You’re here, you’re actually here!”

  She hugged her friend so hard she almost crushed her—Sally never wanted to let Helen go. She might disappear again, might get away to where Sally couldn’t find her.

  “What happened to you?” she demanded, when she finally pulled back “Where did you go? Do you know how long I’ve been searching …”