Glamour

by Louise Bagshawe

  Craig wouldn’t marry her.

  They had been together now for over a year. Well—if you could call it together. Dating, and sleeping together, minus the sleep. Sex that was smoking hot. His touch was certain, and inexorable. She couldn’t fight it, in any way that mattered. Levin turned her inside out. Jane would get aroused now whenever she so much as read his name in the papers. If she saw a clip of him—they were always brief—on TV, she would be useless for business for the next half hour, her unruly, frustrated body crying out for him.

  And yet, and yet. He would not marry her. He had not asked. Jane had followed him to New York—but GLAMOUR needed her. Proud, she had purchased her own fabulous apartment, and hired full daily maid service, a concierge, and a gardener for her rooftop oasis; Levin shrugged, and kept his own town house in the Village, four thousand square feet of Victorian brownstone, right next to his fellow billionaire Magnus Soren. He would have this relationship on his own terms. Jane wanted it on hers. Not that she said anything explicit; Levin kept seeing her, she would not beg to be loved.

  They both continued with their business. Jane worked like she never had before. Haya was sending excellent articles and generating lots of goodwill; Jane traded on it expertly. Sally Lassiter—now, there was a superstar. Jane rejoiced in seeing Sally’s golden prettiness beaming out at her from the cover of In Style or Women’s Wear Daily. Jane herself had a different following: smaller articles, fewer pictures, but ones that mattered to her. Her peers, those who read things other than fashion magazines, knew all about her.

  To the girl on the subway, Sally was GLAMOUR.To the broker reading the Wall Street Journal, it was she, Jane Morgan. At a ridiculously young age, shaping up to be one of America’s most notable businesswomen.There were others ahead of her, but Jane wanted to change all that.

  Jane’s real competition was Craig Levin.

  He played in another league. Fact. Jane didn’t want to compete in the girls’ division. She wanted the championship.Yes, okay, she admitted to herself, as the sweat drenched her skin. When Craig used to tell her, his hands moving capably across her arching body, that he could buy and sell her ten times over, it was a turn-on. But in the morning, she tried to fight.

  All her rage, all her frustration, she poured into her business. Expand. Invest. Supervise. Hire. Repeat. As the GLAMOUR empire spread—her empire, her baby—Jane’s plans got bigger.Turn it into the Wal-Mart of luxe. Own the sector.They thought retail was dead until Sam Walton came along.Why not her?

  Maybe one day she could compete with Craig, on his own terms….

  There were days when she didn’t know if she loved him or hated him.

  Sally was getting married. And her blithe, bubbly love of Chris Nelson grated on Jane. Whenever she saw Nelson on TV—and as the Dodgers were tied in the Series against the Red Sox, that was quite a bit—she was reminded. Chris was marrying Sally. He’d asked, she’d accepted, and it was to be just like the old days—a party at Sally’s former house, with eight hundred of their closest friends.

  Jane couldn’t bear Craig to come with her. Couldn’t bear the jokes. “So when is it your turn?”

  “Gonna catch that bouquet, Jane?”

  She was rich, beautiful, aristocratic, and a self-made woman, and yet, here she was, a slave to love. Sick with desire. Shamed to be so much Levin’s, and know that he was not hers.

  She thought, too often, about that first night, that long, intense night by the pool.

  If only he had not come over. If only she had not had sex with him.Those fires, once lit in her belly, apparently could not be put out. And all Jane wanted to do was to cry out why—to ask him why he would not marry her.

  But there could only be one answer, one she did not want to hear.

  He didn’t love her.

  That was it.Wasn’t it?”

  She felt tears, private tears, wetting her cheeks, and let them fall; this was her sanctuary, after all. Nobody could see her here. She was completely alone.

  Her cell phone rang.

  Jane blinked. It was three in the morning. Who could be calling? Almost nobody had this number. She prayed it was not Craig, but nope; that wasn’t him on the caller I.D.

  “Jane Morgan.”

  A brief pause.“I’ve woken you—I wanted to leave you a message, I’m sorry. I thought the phone would be off.”

  “Hey, Haya. It’s never off. But don’t worry about that, I was awake anyway.” Jane dashed the tears off her face. She could do with a little business talk—refocus. “What’s up?”

  “I know it’s short notice, but could you get a flight to Ghada City tomorrow?”

  Her stomach squeezed. “Are you okay?”

  A laugh. “I’m fine. Actually … I’m getting married.”

  Jane blinked. “Huh?”

  “Well … it’s the nikkah ceremony. There will be another formal wedding later, but once the nikkah happens, you are married. Just my parents, you and Craig, and Sally and Chris. If you can come.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Jaber.” She could almost hear her friend blushing. “I think I might have mentioned him to you.”

  “A little.” Jane blinked, disbelievingly. “You don’t mean Prince Jaber, do you?”

  “Yes. We’ve been seeing each other … I didn’t want to talk about it until I was certain.” Haya paused. “There was some political stuff here.”

  Jane ran the details through her mental processor.“But Prince Jaber is the foreign minister of Ghada. How can you … ?”

  “Jane, I can’t,” Haya said, knowing what Jane was about to say. “I can’t. I have to retire. But I’ve trained up some excellent people and the systems are in place…. I’ve got to be a blind partner now. Devote myself to charity works and do-gooding,” she said, self-deprecatingly.

  Jane’s stomach churned so hard she thought she might pass out. Emotions washed through her, one after the other, so strongly she could hardly believe it. Haya! Haya, too. Married … twice. A damn princess. An actual princess with an actual crown. Sally, in her way, American royalty. And she, Jane … rejected by the only man she had ever loved. Or ever would love.

  “Sally and Chris will be there,” Haya went on, oblivious to Jane’s torment. “Can you and Craig make it?”

  “I—no.” Her and Craig? Last time she’d seen him he’d shut the door of his office and bent her over his desk.They weren’t a true couple. He was at a meeting in Stockholm; the chances of leaving it for a social trip to the Middle East were nil. And to go by herself? No way.“We can’t. I’m sorry, it’s too short notice.” Her tone was cool, that practiced formality she used against all pain. “I’ll come to the real wedding.”

  “This is the real wedding.” Haya was a little distant now herself. “But of course it is hugely short notice … we just want to be married.”

  “I understand.”What woman in love didn’t? Jane thought for a few moments.“If you are retiring from business, Haya, will you sell me your shares? I’ll happily give you market price, or a premium, even.” There was silence. “Haya? Are you still there?”

  “Yes; no, thank you, Jane, I won’t be selling. The business of GLAMOUR is key to Ghada and the region, and I’ve built it up quite carefully. I’ll just be leaving day-to-day management to you and Sally.” Her tone now was as crisp as Jane’s had been before.

  “I see—that’s fine,” Jane lied. She was angry now, though she couldn’t immediately fathom why. But this was out of her control, the whole thing. Her business. Her life. She wondered if Haya would sell to Sally—those two had always been closer. “Congratulations on your wedding, Haya, I’m sure you’ll be extremely happy, and I’ll come to the next ceremony. Can I send a gift to you?”

  “Just donations to the Red Crescent,” Haya said.

  Donations? How impersonal. Jane felt it as a rebuff. Was her friend already acting like a princess, and not the Haya she’d known, whose legs she’d held up as she squeezed out her daughter?

  “I’ll be gl
ad to make a donation. A hundred thousand, first thing tomorrow.”

  “That’s very generous, Jane.Thank you. Good night then.”

  “Good night, Haya,” Jane replied, hanging up.

  She crawled back into her bed, tears welling up again. When Craig got back from Sweden she would take a good cold shower and dress in her most beautiful outfit. And she would go to see him, and once and for all, she would finish it.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this on our day off.” Chris was still pissed off; he took care to speak sotto voce, though.“It’s as hot as balls out here.”

  “Ssh,” Sally hissed, angrily.“You’re here now, make the best of it! You can sleep on the plane on the way home.”

  “Two days’ rest before Boston and I’m spending them thirty thousand feet in the air.”

  “And how many other royal weddings are you going to get invited to?” Sally whispered back.

  He squeezed her arm. “True, but you’ll always be my princess.”

  In front of them, Haya was bending over the scroll; she lowered her head and signed it.

  Sally stared at her friend with something close to awe; she felt loss, too; envy; a touch of anger.With that signature, Haya, as she knew her, had gone, and not like the first time; she had vanished forever.

  Vanished from the company. Vanished from their friendship. There she stood, robed head to toe in fluttering golden silks, a long caftanlike dress studded with seed pearls and embroidered with crystals; the headdress she wore made her look like a story-book princess from Sally’s childhood; it was square, with delicate chiffon scarves of pale gold floating behind it.What a dress! Haya did not look real to Sally. Her husband wore a traditional, embroidered coat; it was white satin, and appeared to be encrusted with diamonds.

  He had signed first. The imam said something in Arabic. The assembled guards presented their guns in a salute, pointed them out at an angle and fired.

  Chris instinctively moved to cover Sally with his body.

  “It’s okay. It’s ceremonial.”

  He grinned. “Jumped out of my skin.”

  But she was already watching her friend.There were women in the same sort of robes, just less ornate—Sally guessed they were maids of honor—and they were coming forward; they removed the square headdress from Haya and the round white cap Jaber wore, and then they led the pair forward to two ornately carved chairs. As they passed the king, Jaber bowed, Haya curtsied; the king, too, said something to them; then they sat down in the chairs.

  Two soldiers came forward bearing white silk cushions.

  “What’s that?” Sally whispered.

  Chris leaned forward, blinked, then put his mouth next to her ear.

  “Crowns,” he said. “Little crowns.”

  Openmouthed, Sally watched as they placed the glittering golden circlets first on Jaber’s head, then on Haya’s; her tiara, all gold and icy white diamonds, glittered in the sun.

  There was a burst of trumpets from the assembled military guard; then Jaber and Haya stood, he offered her his arm, and they processed back down the red carpet, past the assembled Ghadan court; and Sally watched as everybody curtsied or bowed as Haya walked past them. Her parents’ faces were a picture of ecstatic joy; as her daughter walked past, Mrs. Al-Yanna sank into a curtsy so low her knees practically scraped the ground.

  The royal couple were approaching them now. Chris stood up straight; he smiled appreciatively at Haya as she walked past; Sally, blushing scarlet, aware she was Haya’s only invited friend, dipped into an awkward bob.

  It was amazing how much it stung. As she rose, looking now at Haya’s extended train, Chris stared at her, amazed.

  “You’re a damn American,” he said. “What the hell did you do that for?”

  “We’re the only Western guests without some kind of title. I wanted to show respect. Not let her down.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t bend the knee to no man, baby.”

  “Another reason why I love you,” Sally said, honestly. But nonetheless, she was jealous; it couldn’t be denied. What all-American little girl didn’t grow up wanting to be a princess? And Haya was a real one; nothing metaphorical about it.

  The band struck up a Debussy waltz, and the ceremony was over. A uniformed officer from the palace approached them.

  “Mr. Nelson, Miss Lassiter?”

  “Guilty,” Chris said. Sally dug him in the ribs.

  “Her Royal Highness, Princess Haya al-Jaber, asks me to conduct you to the top table; may I take you to the emira?”

  “Why, certainly,” Sally said.

  Damn! What a moment. If her mom could see her now. If her dad could see her …

  It struck her that Haya would definitely, absolutely, not be coming back to GLAMOUR.What if she could take her shares? Then maybe she’d have a chance, for once, not to feel like this—inadequate, the dumbest of the three of them. Jane charged ahead, and never took or asked Sally’s advice. Haya had been out of touch for months.Yet she, Sally Lassiter, had been the driving force behind the store—who’d launched it, who inspired its fashion, who was on magazine covers the world over?

  Haya had won the lottery here. Good for her. Sally wished her joy—and no doubt she was going to get it. GLAMOUR would be little more than a toy to her now. But the store had been Sally’s redemption.

  “I would love to sit next to the princess,” she said, confidently.

  Haya ran to the back door of the villa to check on Noor, and found Mrs.Wilkins waiting for her.

  “She’s fine. Just went down for her nap,” the older woman said, then smiled and curtsied.“And congratulations to you,Your Royal Highness.”

  Haya was horrified. “Don’t do that!”

  “Oh, I have to. People are watching. You might as well get used to it, at least in public—ma’am.You can’t put Prince Jaber under the microscope. He chose an unconventional wife, don’t make him look bad!”

  She twisted uncomfortably.

  “You’re absolutely right. I just feel funny about it.”

  “There’s gossip among the other nannies,” Mrs. Wilkins said, lowering her voice.“About your husband’s position.They say he’s in high favor right now. I wouldn’t ruin it. Don’t stop anybody from observing the protocol.”

  “Okay.” Haya had heard some of that gossip herself. She blushed. “I’m not good at politics.”

  “Just be a princess. Remember that you are one. Be as good at it as you were at business. All right—I’m done. And congratulations again, my dear.” The old woman kissed her on the cheek. “You’ll have a very happy life.”

  On her way back to the marquee Haya did not run. She walked, slowly and elegantly; cooks and waitresses bowed, curtsied as she passed; soldiers saluted her.

  She knew what her nanny meant. Of course she did. There was speculation that Jaber would be raised, made prime minister; second in Ghada only to the king. And if that happened, what an opportunity!

  If her husband had the king’s ear, what could be done with the vast oil wealth of a country like this? Schools for the poor, cultural festivals, the start of democracy, improved relations with the West, promotion of arts and crafts on a global scale … she could actually make a difference, improve the lives of hundreds of thousands.

  Jaber had rejected a royal cousin, one born to this, in her favor. She had to prove to the court that he had not made a mistake with the boorish American girl.

  A uniformed servant held back the doors of the marquee; the entire crowd dipped down as she walked to the high table.

  Haya lifted her head, feeling the coronet upon it, and smiled graciously. As she passed the gold thrones on which the old king and his wife were sitting, she herself sank into a profound curtsy, her wedding robes billowing about her. Jaber smiled at her, and extended a hand to lift her up.

  “Your friends are here,” he said.“Mr. Nelson and Miss Lassiter.”

  “Great,” Haya murmured. She walked round to Chris and Sally, suddenly feeling the eyes of the e
ntire court, the queen in particular, boring down on her.

  “Hello,” she said. “It’s so wonderful that you could come.”

  Chris Nelson was wearing a lightweight suit, and looked ill at ease; he shook her hand briskly.“Hey, Haya, it’s great to be here,” he said.

  She suppressed a wince. Haya? Couldn’t he suck it up and be just a little formal in public? They’d never once met before. And the guy didn’t even have a carnation on.

  “Sally, you look beautiful.” She turned to her friend. Sally did bob a curtsy, her golden head down, but when she came up her face was flaming. Haya did a quick inventory; Sally was wearing a long evening gown, very pretty, in azure blue velvet, but it had shoulder straps, and was cut to display the tops of her impressive bosom. It would knock them out at any ball in California, but Ghada was a little more conservative. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said quickly and urgently.

  “Am I next to you? I don’t know a soul,” Sally whispered.

  “My dad’s on my other side, but you’re right opposite me, how’s that?”

  “Fine,” Sally said, a little disappointed. But hey, it was Haya’s dad.

  “You must be cold,” Haya said, she thought diplomatically. “I’ll have somebody bring you a shawl; it gets chilly in the desert at night.”

  “Congratulations,” Sally replied, giving her an awkward hug.

  Haya squeezed her friend’s hand. “I hope we’ll get to talk … the guard will show you to your seats.”

  Sally nodded briefly as they were led away; Haya beckoned a serving woman.

  “Get my friend a large shawl and arrange it around her shoulders. Quickly, please.”

  “Yes, Highness,” the woman said, throwing a scandalized glance at Sally’s gown.

  “So, Haya,” Sally said, as soon as they were seated. “You’re quitting the company?”

  “Day to day, yes. I’ll be a silent partner. So, how are your own wedding preparations coming?” Haya tried to change the subject—she didn’t want all Jaber’s relatives listening to her talk business on the day of her nikkah. His mother, Princess Alia, was already looking her over with a narrowed glance of disapproval. Mentally she tried to signal to Sally. Damn! Why were her friends so tone-deaf when it came to culture?