Table of Contents
A PLUME BOOK GLAMOUR
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
EPILOGUE
A PLUME BOOK GLAMOUR
LOUISE BAGSHAWE is an internationally bestselling novelist and screenwriter. Glamour is her second novel for Plume, following Sparkles.
Praise for Sparkles
“With a Jackie Collins-ish flair for soapy melodrama, Louise Bagshawe stylishly imagines pretty young things consumed with money, power, and romance.”—Entertainment Weekly
“[An] internationally flavored fantasia on love, lies, and shopping.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Louise Bagshawe’s characters are vivid and memorable. It is easy to see why this author’s works are international bestsellers.”
—www.curledup.com
“Bagshawe immerses readers in the world of the fabulously wealthy with this engaging tale of a diamond heiress and her captivating life.”—Romantic Times
“Mouth-wateringly addictive.”—Ok! Magazine
“Throbs with vitality from the first page.”
—Daily Express (London)
PLUME
Published by the Penguin Group
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Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Plume, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, March 2009
Copyright © Louise Bagshawe, 2009
All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Bagshawe, Louise.
Glamour / Louise Bagshawe.
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-440-69952-8
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businessess, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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http://us.penguingroup.com
This book is dedicated to Kathleen Brooks,
the best mother-in-law in the world. No joke.
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank my wonderful editor Signe Pike, who picked up GLAMOUR and ran with it in record time; she made editing easy and was a joy to work with. It was one of the most painless edits I’ve ever done and greatly improved the book. I’m grateful to my U.S. agent Emma Parry of Fletcher Parry for an excellent deal with a wonderful house. Thanks are also due to the entire team at Plume, particularly Kathryn Court and Cherise Davis Fisher. Abigail Powers turned production of the book around at lightning speed and Nadia Kashper heroically entered every change (and there were lots—I am a copy editor’s nightmare) and got the MS to production. I’m lucky to have such a strong team of colleagues, and every one of them a woman. That’s real girl power for you!
PROLOGUE
The name was written in brass letters, each one sixteen feet high, polished like a mirror.They glittered on the front of the store, sparkling in the California sun like a permanent firework.
What a store! In Hollywood, the city of the stars, GLAMOUR said it all. A landmark attraction since the day it first opened, the new building was a must-see on every tourist itinerary. All-American razzmatazz; a monument to luxury, money, and power.
The flagship store was ten stories high. Dwarfing Harrods in London and Saks in New York, L.A.’s GLAMOUR was the ultimate shopping temple. Sleek and modern, it had been fronted with glossy black granite, so that the golden letters shone even more brilliantly. The trademark uniformed doormen and valets, both men and women, stood to attention behind the huge glass front doors, waiting for opening time. At GLAMOUR, shopping was an exquisite pleasure. Once you entered those doors, the cares of the day fell away.You were in another world: soft carpeting underfoot, exquisite fresh flowers at every corner, assistants to wait on your every whim. Every shopping trip was a vacation, and around the world, women with money just couldn’t get enough. If you bought so much as a hairband in GLAMOUR, somebody would wrap it in the iconic triple-G tissue paper, tie it with mint green ribbons, and carry it to your car—should you so desire.
The clothes were fabulous. The scents adorable. The shoes haute couture.The jewels must-have.
L.A.’s glitterati loved it. And the women who had founded it were set to become among the wealthiest in the world. Everybody knew their story.
Three women. Beautiful, powerful, and rich.
And, it seemed, absolutely ruthless.
Once, they had been the closest of friends. Once, they had all suffered. And together, they had triumphed.
So how had it gone so wrong?
CHAPTER 1
“It’s the princess!”
The little girl tugged on her mother’s coat sleeve, jumping up and down with excitement as a sleek black limo eased by.
“Look! Momma. It’s her.There she is!”
“You’re right, baby!”
Her mother, Coco, a bank teller in her mid thirties, leaned over the thick velvet rope flanking the long red carpet that swept across Rodeo Drive. Keisha’s childish enthusiasm was infectious. Coco hoisted her daughter up on her shoulders so the girl could get a better look.
Across the street, forced back by security, was a gaggle of media reporters, cameramen, and boom-mike holders, the reporters all talking intently to their cameras. Two local TV news choppers whirred overhead.
Normally you only got
this sort of turnout for the biggest stars. A-list actresses, the First Lady, the Lakers. But these three young women were legendary. America—and the world—was watching this meeting.
Coco felt her stomach knot with anticipation. She was going to be late taking Keisha to school, late for work. But it was worth it. She’d pushed her baby into the crowd, determined to show her three of the most sizzling, famous businesswomen in the world.
The American dream. Anyone could make it. It could be you in that limo. Never mind school—that was a lesson Keisha should learn. Coco turned toward the car as the L.A.P.D. officers shouted, motioning for everybody to get back. Keisha squealed in delight.
The security men swarmed around the gleaming black vehicle. There were olive-skinned soldiers, lean and dangerous looking, the palm tree of Ghada emblazoned on their uniformed chests. Mingling with them, brawny Americans with dark suits, shades, and earpieces—the Secret Service.
A man stepped forward and opened the back door of the limo.
The Arab security men snapped to a salute.
A slippered foot emerged from the limo, swathed in gorgeously embroidered gold thread. It was followed by the swish of a long dress, a floor-length robe in butterscotch silk, well-cut and covered with ornate stitched designs; modest, self-assured, and beautiful.The woman stood up; she wore a simple veil across her hair, secured with a solid semicircle of polished gold; her aquiline face was calm and confident.
“She’s so beautiful,” Keisha gasped.“Can I get a dress like that, Mom?”
“I don’t think it would fit you, baby,” Coco replied.
The crowd recovered from its fit of awe.
“Princess! Princess!”
“Princess Haya!”
“Haya, over here! Highness!”
The gold-robed vision smiled and waved; to the dismay of her handlers, she strode up to the barriers, shaking hands and greeting the crowd.They cheered and shouted; Haya chatted graciously.
“I want to meet her!” Keisha squealed.
“There are hundreds of people here, honey,” Coco said, not wanting her daughter to get disappointed.
But then four black-suited men brushed past her—and all of a sudden, there was the princess, standing before them, resplendent in her traditional gown; gleaming, as golden as the sun, like something out of Coco’s childhood fairy stories.
Keisha clapped her hands.
“You’re a real live princess!” she shouted.
And as Coco watched, Princess Haya laughed, reached forward, and gave the little girl a big hug.
“And so are you,” she replied. Then she looked down at Coco.
“Ma’am, you have a beautiful daughter.”
“Th-thank you—Highness … ,” Coco stuttered.
Haya smiled and winked at the amazed mother. Then she turned and walked up the red carpet, past her bowing security men, her silken robe fluttering in the light breeze.
“Oh, my gosh!” Keisha was saying. “She hugged me! Oh, my gosh!”
“Come on,” Coco said. “We got to get you to school, honey.”
Normally this would have provoked instant moaning. But Keisha allowed herself to be drawn along meekly, lost in her own little world.
To be honest, Coco had a buzz as well. That was cool—way cool. When they reopened the store, after the big meeting, she would pop in—buy herself a little something. Not that she could afford much. But just entering GLAMOUR made you feel like you were living the dream.
As she hustled her happy daughter toward the car, Coco stole a glance back over her shoulder.The crowd was still there, adrenaline up, chattering as they awaited the other two.
“Miz Nelson.”
“Yes?” Sally shouted back. She had to shout—the whirring of the chopper blades was just too loud.
“If you look to your left, ma’am,” the pilot bellowed,“you can see the store.We’ll be landing in just a second.”
“Great!”
Sally gave him a thumbs-up, and the pilot smiled at her momentarily before turning back to the controls. Like all men, he was flirting with her.
Sally shook her long blonde hair smoothly down her back. Expensively and expertly coiffed on Fifth Avenue by Rolande himself, owner of the famous line that she had discovered, it was a shimmering curtain of platinum. She snapped open her Hermès Kelly bag and removed a compact mirror. Too fabulous for words! No wonder it had been the hit of spring’s accessory line. She ran through the numbers in her head—five hundred dollars times how many? Ten thousand? Why, she’d made millions just from this one product. Customers couldn’t get enough of that Sally, GLAMOUR magic. And whatever the other two said, she was the one who knew how to give it to them.
Sally examined her beautiful face critically, looking for flaws. But there were none. Her skin, helped along by the very best facials and professionally applied Lassiter makeup, was glowing. She looked ten years younger than she was. Her body was buff and lithe—a personal trainer worked it out daily—and her dress was French Riviera chic, a Pucci print with a white silk jacket over the top, designed just for Sally. Sassy, cool, and irreverent, she carried it with her Kelly bag and trademark Manolos—throw in a large pair of tortoiseshell glasses and she was the living spirit of summer.
Sally knew she looked like a star. But then again, she was one. She leaned across the soft leather seats of her personal helicopter and looked down on the seething crowd milling alongside the GLAMOUR red carpet. They were her fans—the fans of the dream. The other two girls, well, she shrugged to herself, still angry—they’d just helped with the mechanics.
Sally Nelson was the star here. She was Barbie. She was Lady Liberty.The all-American icon, blonde hair, tanned skin, healthy Cali lifestyle, and oh yes, the small matter of a billion dollars or two to boot. She had appeared in more ad campaigns than she could count, and the public ate her up. GLAMOUR. That was her, wasn’t it? Not cold, bookish Jane, or regal Haya—who, let’s face it, had taken herself out of the game.
When they thought glamorous, they thought Sally. She smiled triumphantly. It was her store, her dream.They had named it after Sally!
Of course GLAMOUR should be hers.
“Please remain seated until the airplane has ground to a complete halt,” said the steward.
Jane Morgan didn’t even look him in the eye. She had already unbuckled her belt and jumped to her feet.
“Ma’am—please take your seat,” he said uncomfortably.
“Please get out of my way.” She turned to him, her famous black eyes cool. “This flight was delayed for four hours.”
She snapped open the overhead locker and retrieved her laptop bag, oblivious of the other first-class passengers’ stares.
“You’re defying FAA regulations.”
“Correct.” She shrugged.“I don’t pay ten thousand dollars for a first-class ticket in order to be prevented from doing my job.”
“We tried to make you as comfortable as possible, ma’am,” he began.
“I don’t need to be comfortable. I need to be in Beverly Hills. I have a meeting. And I’m late.”
Jane Morgan made that sound like a terminal condition.
Every fancy businessman, society wife, and ruddy-cheeked CEO in the first-class cabin was now watching the show.
He remonstrated with her, almost pleading …
“It’ll just be a minute …”
There was a small shudder, and the plane docked with the exit tunnel. The pilot, perhaps sensing the trouble, switched off the seat belt signs, and with that little ping, all the suits were up, fumbling around their laps, trying to get their bags.
Jane Morgan was already standing by the exit door. First in line and ready for business.
“Highness, I must advise against it.”
Ahmed al-Jamir, the embassy’s special adviser, leaned across the table, his dark eyes intent on Haya’s. “Your position …”
“I am a member of the board,” Haya said mildly.
“I meant your royal
position,” Al-Jamir persisted. “This business stuff can be left to others.You should simply sell your stake. What is the point?”
Her dark eyes raced across the figures on the packet in front of her; finally they lifted and regarded him.
“The point is that GLAMOUR is my company. It’s my store. And I haven’t forgotten that.”
Even if the others had.
Al-Jamir was ready to weep. The princess would be queen one day, maybe one day soon. Her husband controlled countless billions, a major army. Even before the inheritance, Haya had her pick of no less than sixteen separate palaces, more jewels than she could wear.
For all its high-profile branding, this company was nothing. Nothing!
He lowered his voice and said as much.They both knew what he really meant. It was unseemly for a princess of Ghada to be playing around in American business. Look at the Englishwoman, Jane Morgan. Famous across the world, although Al-Jamir did not dare voice the thought, for being one hell of a ball-breaking bitch.
He did not want Siti Haya mentioned in the same breath as Jane Morgan! It demeaned her, it demeaned Prince Jaber. It lowered the very royal house!
Haya closed the company report and turned her gaze to the security men and civil servants.
“Leave us.”
“But Princess—”
“You can wait outside the door.”
There were a lot of reluctant bows, and then they all trooped meekly out. Haya gazed at her ambassador.
“When I married His Highness, I told him I had no intention of surrendering my past life.”
“But events …”
“Yes.We all know what happened.” She would not refer to the change in their circumstances. “Nonetheless, Ahmed, I founded this company. I began its spirit. I began its ethos. Something Sally and Jane apparently want eliminated. You need not fear; today will be the very last day I spend engaged in the world of business. I know my duty.”
Glamour Page 1
