Beauty

by Louise Mensch

  He winced at the thought.

  There were all kinds of good reasons to call Dina Kane. He would find her a job – someplace else. That was the solution: get her work, but not too near him. Salve his conscience.

  And then, products . . . The chemist had ducked out, headed back to Europe and a comfortable retirement. Gaines Goldstein wasn’t interested in developing new products itself – the company had no research labs. He wanted to buy other little brands, ones like Meadow that worked out of the gate, that would make L’Audace a cosmetics house. And then he could dump it.

  At Gaines Goldstein level, you moved forward or stepped aside. That was it.

  Dina Kane knew where he could find the good stuff. Gaines much preferred to work that way, rather than through intermediaries.

  Yeah. That was a perfect reason. In fact, he had to do it.

  He pulled out his cellphone and turned it on.

  Dina was running. The East River, to her left, was grey and cold, but the sight of the water still soothed her. She was dressed warmly – gloves, a hat – music pumping through her earphones; she would never swap the street for the gym. There would have to be a blizzard. You got the light here, the street, the people, skyscrapers, traffic, streetcars: all Manhattan’s variety, pace and power.

  It drove Dina. It pushed her. She felt like she was going somewhere, seeing something. There was a point. That’s what made it so good.

  Her music stopped. Incoming call. Her heart flipped in her chest. She prayed it wasn’t the rehab centre calling to say Johnny was sick, or in hospital. Or worse.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Joel Gaines.’

  She slowed to a halt, feeling the cool air on her face, calming the immediate blush. ‘Mr Gaines. Yes, sir.’

  ‘Joel.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘You sound busy.’

  ‘No! No, I’m just running. It’s fine; I mean, I’d love to talk to you.’ She winced, bit her lip. I’d love to talk to you? Jesus.

  ‘I want some recommendations from you. The products you sourced at your little store. Do you still have access to a list?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You want to buy them?’

  ‘Small producers.’ Dina could almost hear the shrug at the end of the line. ‘You told me you went into this because they worked. That’s what I’m looking for. Will you send me the list?’

  ‘Certainly, as soon as you send me two hundred thousand dollars.’

  He laughed, and she could hear the shock. ‘What?’

  ‘Come on, Joel.’ Dina paced, gripping the phone. ‘You got a deal on Meadow. And now you want to save maybe six months of research by taking my list and making offers to European boutiques. If you say yes right away, I won’t raise the price to two fifty.’

  ‘My God,’ he said. ‘That’s it. I give up.’ There was a pause, then he added, ‘Come to lunch. Come today. I’ll cancel my appointment.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I’ll book somewhere.’

  ‘If you come to my apartment, I’ll cook for you. I can also print you the full list, and you can hand me a cheque for the two hundred grand.’

  ‘That’s a deal, kid. One p.m. Give me your address.’

  Dina returned home early. She was far too excited for anything else. Quickly, she peeled off her workout clothes, headed to the wet room, showered and washed her hair.

  She towelled off frantically and selected an outfit: a simple, sleeveless woollen shift, scarlet red – bold, like she wanted to be with him – sheer Wolford hose and ballet flats. She was trying to look casual, when she felt anything but. Her make-up had to be perfect, in case he had second thoughts about buying her list. She dived into her old stock from the Green Apothecary, applying feather-light mousse foundation, putting bronze lipstick against olive-green shadow, a touch of ochre blush, high on the cheekbones, and then solid, Egyptian mascara, so her eyes popped like Cleopatra.

  She applied fast – five minutes – then she set the table; thank God there was yesterday’s chilli still in the fridge. Dina was no gourmet, but she’d learned to cook to save money – dishes that could last and be warmed through were a favourite. Chilli, a salad, sparkling water and she set the coffee grinds into her pot: done.

  There was nothing fancy. She wasn’t worried. Gaines wasn’t that kind of guy.

  Dina ran back into the dressing room and got out the hairdryer. It was super-pro; one of the Green Apothecary’s clients, a girl who owned a salon, had lent it to her and it was ideal at a time like this, when she wanted to nuke herself.

  She blasted the air, aiming the nozzle right at her English Mason Pearson brush . . .

  The buzzer went.

  Dina jumped out of her skin. Her hair was still damp and tousled against the chic little dress.

  It buzzed again. She glanced at her watch. Twelve thirty. Damn it.

  ‘Go away!’ she called out. ‘I have somebody coming round in half an hour.’

  ‘You have somebody round now,’ Gaines replied through the door.

  She shuddered and hurried to open the door.

  He was standing there in a light blue shirt and navy suit. Almost six foot, he loomed over her, the strong body looking even more developed than before. The dark eyes glittered with amusement.

  Dina squirmed. ‘Joel . . . I’m not . . . not ready.’

  ‘You look ready to me. Can I come in?’

  She surrendered. ‘Yes. Of course.’

  He stepped inside, glanced around her place. ‘Stylish. Who’s the designer?’

  ‘Me. I buy tired apartments, put in a little cosmetic work . . .’

  ‘I should have known.’

  ‘It’s on the market for one and a half, if you want a pied-à-terre,’ she said boldly.

  ‘I think you’ve taken quite enough of my money for now.’

  He took her in: the sexy, nervous length of her; that stunning face and slender body framed by damp hair; the way she was looking at him – the challenge, the admiration. The desire. The obvious desire.

  Susan never looked at him like that. Not anymore. Gaines didn’t know that she ever had. There was fun once, mutual affection, friendship . . . But love? He wasn’t so sure. And never passion. Susan was willing, welcoming, accommodating. When he was younger, with his eyes on the prize, achieving great things in business, it was more than enough. She made a great home, was an elegant hostess, a good mom. And that was marriage.

  Passion was for the movies. Rich men’s wives were a certain breed. Elegant, educated, active on their school boards, they played tennis in the Hamptons, remembered to send gifts on friends’ birthdays; they remodelled their kitchens and maybe had some small job. What they did was a social enterprise, war on a thousand fronts that men didn’t bother with.

  Dina Kane was not that kind of girl.

  And he was fascinated.

  ‘What’s for lunch?’ he asked, to distract himself.

  ‘Chilli and rice,’ she said, still blushing.

  ‘Really?’ He smiled again. Nobody had served him a bowl of plain chilli in years. ‘Goddamn, that sounds good.’

  ‘Take a seat.’

  He pulled up a chair at her sleek little dining table. His practised eye could see she had spent a few dollars well: a good omen for business.

  Dina served them each a large steaming bowl of the meat and beans, with a little rice. After the workout that morning, he was starving.

  ‘It’s good.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She reached to pour him water, leaning over him. He breathed in the scent of her shampoo and bath soap.

  Dina sat back down and lifted her fork. She ate, head bowed. She wouldn’t look at him, almost like she couldn’t look at him.

  When he had finished, Joel said, ‘That was excellent.’ He stood and cleared his bowl away to the kitchen. ‘You can always get a new career as a cook.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll ever be making morsels of salmon in a pomegranate coulis, or whatever they serve in the good restaurants
these days.’

  ‘Open a place on Wall Street that does chilli, steaks, lasagne. Most businessmen haven’t had a proper meal in years. I could happily die without ever seeing jus on a menu ever again.’

  Dina laughed. ‘I’m better at what goes on people’s faces than what goes into their mouths, Mr Gaines.’

  ‘Joel.’

  She blushed again. ‘I know. I just find it difficult.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’re so . . .’ Her voice trailed off. ‘You know.’

  ‘Enlighten me.’

  ‘Powerful. Successful. A major figure.’ Dina was now bright red, and she tried to cover it by jumping to her feet and clearing the table. ‘You’re a legend – as you know.’

  ‘I do know. It’s still enjoyable hearing you say it.’

  Dina felt herself moisten with desire. He was so arrogant, so handsome, so cocky. And it was justified; who could say it wasn’t?

  ‘Do you have the list?’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’ She was relieved to be able to flee into her bedroom, to get the printout from her computer. It was thick – ten pages long. ‘I’ve made entries in bold of the brands you should look at – small manufacturers; good sellers – I can send you some notes, too.’

  ‘Excellent.’ He took the sheaf of pages and flicked through it; a few companies there were already on his radar. ‘You’re quite right, of course. This will save us months of prep work.’

  ‘Then you will give me the cheque?’

  ‘You sound as though you doubt it.’

  Dina shrugged. ‘Two hundred grand for a computer printout.’

  He looked at her. ‘I made the deal. When I make deals, they happen: first rule of business.’

  He snapped open his briefcase and handed her a neatly typed cheque. Dina looked at it, the figures swimming before her eyes. This was really happening, this, her life.

  ‘Thank you, Mr— Joel.’

  ‘You can’t just bank it. How much is left of the half million?’

  ‘Not much. There was this place. My brother needed rehab. Taxes.’

  He nodded. ‘You need a job.’

  Dina’s heart pounded. ‘Can I work for you?’

  ‘I’m not in the beauty business. This is just one of many for me.’ His eyes swept over her. ‘Besides, that might not be a good idea.’

  ‘Why not?’ she whispered.

  ‘My turn to say, “you know”.’

  Dina’s heart thudded in her chest. She thought she might gasp with longing. He’d acknowledged it, right there in her apartment – the electricity between them.

  ‘I’m married,’ he said.

  ‘Of course.’

  But he was still looking at her. Dina’s knees trembled a little. She could not remember ever having wanted anything more than she wanted this guy.

  ‘You need to work for somebody, however. I can mentor you a little. What do you want to do?’

  ‘I’d like to be a director of beauty retail. One of the major stores. Something well-paid, where I can make an impact. Saks, Bloomingdale’s . . .’

  ‘How about Torch?’

  Dina wrenched her eyes from Gaines’ face and body. Torch was the veteran ladies’ fashion emporium on the Upper West Side, with the Lady Liberty logo, packed into twelve floors of belle époque New York splendour. But the architecture of the venerable building was the sexiest thing about it. The store had a great past, but the future was kind of dusty. Big in the eighties, Torch had settled to become a sort of halfway house. It stocked everybody, but didn’t get the hip collections. Saks and Bloomingdale’s had all the luxe, Glamour was the ethical shopping destination of the liberal elite and Macy’s, downtown, competed on mid-price and sheer space.

  All Torch had going for it was that it was uptown, so it mopped up local shoppers who couldn’t be bothered to get in a cab. And, living on past glory, its average customer was fifty plus. Big sellers were fur coats, shawls and a lot of jewelled sequin jackets.

  Not Dina Kane’s cup of tea. But a venerable New York name.

  ‘If I had a free rein,’ she said, carefully.

  ‘It’s perfect for you. Why would you want to go somewhere successful?’

  Dina smiled.

  ‘Very good. Bank your cheque. I know the old man that owns that store. He lives in California now, enjoying the sun. He’ll take a recommendation from me.’

  Dina didn’t know what to say. Just like that, he could swoop in, swoop down and make her life better. The ease of it; the naked power on display.

  ‘I . . . Thank you.’

  ‘Thank me by proving how brilliant I am at sourcing staff.’

  ‘Should I call them?’

  ‘They’ll call you.’ He stood, picked up the briefcase. ‘So, now we’re done.’

  ‘Joel, will I see you again?’

  For a long, brutal second, he looked her over, wanting the girl, liking the girl, feeling her electricity, the desire, the lifeforce.

  ‘Maybe one day.’ The words he forced out, with supreme discipline, sounded like somebody else was saying them. ‘After you get a boyfriend.’

  ‘Then I’ll get a boyfriend,’ she said.

  Gaines immediately wanted to kill him.

  ‘Goodbye,’ he said, and he walked out of her door before he said something he could never take back.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Welcome to Torch.’

  Regina Freeman was bored with her life, and it showed. African-American and passably elegant, she had reached fifty-one and the heights of high achievement in life: a big salary, director at a major store, a husband in tort law and two kids at college.

  The fire of her early days was smothered in comfort: a nice two-bedroom in a tree-lined block just off Columbus; great health, dental and long-term care insurance; cruise vacations with the same people every year; visits to her folks in Jersey at Thanksgiving. You didn’t rock the boat with your life like that. Not ever.

  She ran Torch’s day-to-day operations. Staff costs were low, volume was high; they carried just enough high-end clothes to remain a major store. Mostly, the matrons of the Upper West shopped here. The Morgan family owned it, and the business paid low rates and no rent. They could afford to coast, and that’s exactly what they were doing. Regina’s job was just to keep the bills paid.

  ‘You come highly recommended,’ she said.

  She was wearing a neat little Ann Klein pantsuit with a pink cotton blouse and mules: safe, easy wear. The young girl before her was different. Startlingly well made-up, she was a beauty in chic green Prada with a Mulberry handbag and Kate Spade wedges. Her look said fashion. Chic. New. All the things Torch wasn’t.

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  Regina softened fractionally. She appreciated good manners; she hated how the youth of today usually stared at their iPhones and never looked at you.

  ‘You have something to do with Meadow, by L’Audace? We stock that here.’

  ‘I helped bring that to market. I sold it to Mr Gaines; I think he recommended me to Mr Morgan. I also ran a successful independent beauty store downtown.’

  ‘Big retail is very different.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. I’m here to learn.’

  ‘Quickly, I hope, since you’re going to be directing our beauty sales. I must say, Ms Kane, I’ve never seen anybody as young as you hired for a major job like this.’

  ‘I do understand, Mrs Freeman. Please, call me Dina. I’ll do my best to show Mr Morgan it was a good hire.’

  Regina wanted to ask the girl what she was getting paid, but restrained herself. It must have been into six figures, like her own salary. The kid was coming straight to management. One fluke with a face cream and she was jumping the queue. But Dina did seem different to most young kids. She had old eyes in that pretty face.

  ‘Do you have what you need?’ Regina asked.

  ‘I’d like to spend today observing, and then tomorrow running through our sales sheets and the order book. And I’ll come up with my
recommendations next week.’

  ‘Very good,’ Regina said. ‘So I’ll see you around.’

  She walked back to her office, up the marble staircase with its faded royal blue carpet, trying to figure out the puzzle. Ludo – it had to be him. Mr Peter Morgan’s son was a New York playboy, top of the most-eligible list. He always had an eye for the pretty girls. Mostly they just scored jobs as eyebrow threaders or perfume spritzers, though. Not directors of beauty.

  Well, Dina Kane was uncommonly attractive. But Ludo went through two girls a month – he would tire of the novelty soon.

  She’d just be patient and let the girl hang herself with her own rope. No need to rock the boat. The retirement account in her IRA was looking exceptionally healthy right now. And everybody at Torch knew you didn’t mess with Ludo Morgan.

  Dina walked around the dull, boring store, and felt her heart thud with excitement.

  Joel Gaines, you genius.

  He was so right. This place was a disaster area, and she was thrilled at the thought of putting it right.

  The shop floor was badly lit and crowded with stock. Bored shopgirls talked to each other all day, ignoring the customers. Items were marked at a discount everywhere – clothes piled on tables under red SALE signs. Brands were jumbled with haute couture designer items, as if the store was afraid of selling the goods.

  Torch looked tired – old.

  The beauty department was better – if you want to be average. The big cosmetics houses controlled their own displays. Torch carried most of them, so things were standard. There was almost nothing new. She smiled when she saw the small stand for Meadow, and the steady stream of customers it was attracting.

  Dina looked at the assistants in their drab white coats with the square gold nametags. Some were talking to customers; most were staring into space. Beauty wasn’t doing much business. This was an older crowd, who knew what they wanted. She watched women home in on Estée Lauder or Chanel, grab a product and take it to a counter.

  Like a post office, she thought. Like buying stamps.

  There was buying – no selling. No reason to be here and not down the street, except, at Torch, you could pick up lingerie down the hall, and a cushion on floor two.