Glamour

by Louise Bagshawe

  Sally made a good recovery. “That’s cool. There are lots of Jews here anyway. And here’s where we eat lunch. Do you want to sit with us and eat lunch?”

  Jane looked at her best friend, and felt a rush of warmth. Really, asking somebody to sit with you at lunch was a big deal. She was offering to support HelenYanna, in public, in the full view of all the nasty, cliquey, bullying teenage girls that otherwise could make this shy young Arab’s life a perfect misery.

  And Sally was doing that for a girl from the Middle East with no connections, no cool factor, nothing that indicated she’d do Sally any good.

  Sometimes Sal aggravated Jane, despite their friendship. That blinding beauty and the huge wealth, the careless, confident dismissal of academic things. But deep down, she was a really big-hearted southern belle.

  Jane was proud to know her, and proud to be her friend.

  “I’d like that, too,” Jane said softly.

  “I’d love to sit with you.” Helen felt nervous for the first time that day; she peered in to see the refectory full of loud, noisy American girls, already bonded into their little groups. She wanted to cling to her two companions. “But … I can’t eat the food … it isn’t halal… . My father made an arrangement. They will bring me my food especially.”

  She hesitated.Was that too weird for them? If they left her, she would be the new, strange Muslim chick, and the brash American students would bully her. Helen felt the butterflies crawl in the pit of her stomach.

  “I dig that!” Sally Lassiter sensed the fear, and hastened to reassure her. “See? You’re special. Like waiter service, right in hall!”

  “Thank you. Shokram.” The Arabic slipped out, from habit. “Do you two have other friends?”

  “Sure! Plenty. But we’re best friends,” Sally said, confidently, squeezing Jane’s arm. “We’re our own group.”

  “And can I be in your group?” Helen asked artlessly.

  Jane Morgan smiled warmly at her. “Absolutely! We’d be delighted.”

  “Thank you,” Helen said again, with a grateful smile. She loved it.This was a great school.

  And these two were nice girls.

  The ache that had been in her heart since their family had left Amman started to dull, just a little.

  It was so great to have friends.

  The first year seemed to blend into itself. Every day was packed. The girls made a tight group, and they could handle themselves. Jane Morgan could cut down any mean girl with a withering quip, Sally Lassiter was simply too rich and too pretty to fight, and Helen, well—Helen was exotic. These were the eighties; heavy-metal bands were rocking the Sunset Strip and money was gushing everywhere. Reagan was president, life was good.

  In lessons, Jane did best. Her brain was like a machine and, with her incredible dedication, only Sally and Helen could tug her from her books. Sally, well, average was the best she could hope for. But that didn’t bother Mom and Pop, so why should she care?

  Helen did fairly well. Despite her admiration for Jane, her brain was not quite as sharp. And she still found herself struggling with the language at times. She could never be as pretty as Sally; her father forced her to keep her hair as it was, and she was never allowed to layer on the makeup, just a little tinted moisturizer and mascara, occasionally lip gloss. Not that it mattered; Helen’s skin was luminous and clear, her eyes limpid, her lips full. And she had a place in school now. If Sally was the beauty and Jane the brains, Helen was the all-rounder.

  Best of all, she had people to rely on. Two friends of her own.

  And the three of them were a tight, loyal group.

  “What are you doing, freak?”

  Helen touched the mat in front of her with her forehead and tried to concentrate on her prayer.

  “I said, what are you doing?”

  There was a sharp kick in her ribs. Helen flooded with anger and fear. She knew that voice.That was Julie Manners. Queen of the cliques. And first-class bitch.

  “I don’t like Ay-rabs,” Julie announced.

  Helen gritted her teeth and raised herself, sitting back on her heels, praying for forgiveness. Especially for the fact that right now she wanted to smash Julie Manners’s teeth in.

  “You ignoring me?You better not be ignoring me.Towel-head!”

  “Allahu Akbar,” Helen whispered. She knelt down again, putting her head to the ground, toward Mecca and the holy shrine.

  “Look, girls. Little Miss Sand Nigger here thinks she can act all hoity-toity in the U. S. of A… . oof!”

  There was a gasp and Helen, her eyes closed, heard shouting. She continued to pray.There was the sound of a sharp slap and a howl of rage….

  “Y’all better back off our buddy.” That was Sally, Helen thought, with a rush of gratitude.“You’re a fat ugly waste of skin, Julie.They ain’t made the surgeon in America who can turn you into a babe.You’d best get to prayin’ somebody puts a padlock on your refrigerator.”

  “Leave me alone!”

  “Let her go!” Julie’s groupies, chiming in.

  “I suggest you leave Helen be. Permanently. Otherwise I will go directly to Miss Milton and report what I saw.You’ll be expelled.” Jane Morgan, speaking with that proper British accent. Daring them to continue.

  “Screw you, you limey bitch! And you, you redneck slut! The whole world knows that Jimmy Quiznos turned you down last Saturday!”

  “Yeah, like I’d give Jimmy the time of day. He’s so ugly even you could go out with him!” Sally retorted.

  “Bitch!” Julie shrieked again, but Helen could hear it was from farther away.

  “Allahu Akbar,” she whispered again, a little more fervently, and stood up, finished. She opened her eyes and saw Julie and half her gang skulking off to the other end of the playground. Julie stuck up one manicured finger.

  “Don’t you mind her. She’s ignorant,” Sally said, as Helen rolled the prayer mat up.

  “Did she hurt you?” Jane touched her friend’s ribs through the gray jumper.

  Helen winced. “No,” she lied.

  It would make a pretty fair bruise, that was for sure. But the insults kept ringing through her head. Sand nigger. Towel-head. Weirdo. Ay-rab. “Why do they talk like that?”

  “Just showing off. They think you’re strange because you never have any boyfriends.”

  “Nor does Jane.”

  “Ouch,” Jane objected mildly. “You don’t understand tact, do you, Helen?”

  “What does it mean, ‘tact’?”

  “Never mind.” Sally was full of beans. “You want to be accepted, don’t you?”

  “She has us,” Jane retorted, still mildly stung.

  “But the other girls …” Helen had an outsider’s longing to fit in. “The rest of them.You know.”

  Jane nodded and glanced at Sally.

  “I agree.They never let up. Especially Julie and Maureen and company.” She patted Helen on the shoulder. “I agree it can get wearing.”

  “Then we should do something about that.” Sally stretched, her tanned schoolgirl body catlike in the sun. “Serve them out for what they just tried to do to Helen.” Underneath her southern milk-and-honey tones, Jane heard real anger, and she half shivered; Sally might not be academically bright, but she wasn’t dumb. There was a streak of steel to her. And now that they’d messed with Helen, she was furious.

  “Let’s throw a party,” Sally said, after a pause.

  “A party?” Helen asked.

  Jane smiled. Subtle.

  “Yes. A real party. Like, party of the year. Must-attend, social death if you don’t show up. It’s my birthday in two weeks—lets crack the whip a little bit over these girls. Prove to them that y’all really are my friends.” There was a dangerous light in Sally’s eyes. “And there are consequences if they mess with you.”

  Helen’s dark gaze flickered over the loud, obnoxious gaggle of girls at the other corner of the playground; they were laughing, most likely at her.

  “But they won’t
come to our party,” she said. “I don’t understand.”

  Sally smiled at her friend.

  When it came to pure, glorious style, Sally Lassiter was in her element.

  “Oh, they’ll come,” she said, coolly. “Right, Jane? They’ll come. We just make the party big enough and hot enough and they’ll be begging me for invitations.You can handle it just fine, if you’ve got style.”

  She reached out, patting the girls on their shoulders.

  “You need to understand. Glamour is a weapon.”

  She winked.

  CHAPTER 3

  Helen Yanna stood in the kitchen of her house and carefully watched her mother fixing tea; she made it fresh, the Moroccan way, with mint leaves and lots of sugar, served in small, decorated glasses on an ornate silver tray. A slice of home, this was an afternoon ritual with them, and one that always made her feel comforted.

  “Do you want some?” her mother said, speaking carefully in English. Baba insisted they use it, even at home.

  “Thank you,” Helen replied, politely. She accepted the glass and sipped carefully, wondering how to broach the subject.

  “I found some beautiful peaches at Farmers Market today,” her mother said, starting to chatter. Helen glanced around the kitchen; it was modern and stylish, but relatively small. Baba loved to move, wanting to be in the best areas the family could afford. This was her third house in six years. It wasn’t yet Bel Air, or even Beverly Hills at all, but it was not far, on Third Street, near the Writers Guild building, and inside a prestigious gated complex. She knew her mother and sister loved the security; the manicured lawns, the little houses in the development all the same size, the community leisure center with its pool and gym. Everything was neat and clean here. Baba had bought them one of the smaller properties, and was spending the rest on school fees for Helen and her sister, Jasmine.That, and a really big Mercedes, a fancy TV, a home computer, and the right kinds of suits and watches.

  With Baba, appearance was everything. Helen calculated; could she use that to her advantage now?

  It was a strange way to grow up, living between two worlds. With loving parents, but hypocritical ones.Yes, Baba and Mama desperately wanted to fit in. And Helen knew all about that longing. She felt it, every day, at school. But they were also Muslims … not very devout, hardly practicing, but still, it was one rule for them, another for her. To this day, she had not dared to bring Sally or Jane home. Especially not Sally. She was too Western, too determined. If Baba ever caught sight of Sally’s deliberately shortened skirts he’d order Helen never to see her again.

  Was it likely he’d let her go to a party?

  Helen twisted her fingers around the glass. She didn’t think so. And yet she wanted to go, oh, so, so badly. It wasn’t like she’d do anything, she thought resentfully. She wouldn’t drink alcohol or kiss some boy. She just wanted the chance to go, to be with her friends.To be at the heart of things.To get her own back on the bullies.

  To see what it was like to be like Sally—just one time, one night.

  “You know, Mama, there’s a big party at my friend Sally’s house in two weeks.” Helen strove to sound casual. “She’s very rich; her father owns an oil company.”

  “Your friend is too young for that sort of thing.” Mama sniffed.

  “Well … there won’t be any alcohol,” Helen lied.“And Sally’s parents will be there … you know, as chaperones.”

  Mama turned to her daughter, her mouth drawn in a thin line.

  “Absolutely not, Helen. It sounds forbidden, with boys and mixing. That sort of decadence is not for a good girl like you. Your father will say no. Put it out of your mind.”

  “But—”

  “No,” her mother said, then lapsed into Arabic, for emphasis. “La-a.”

  Helen shrugged as if she didn’t care and finished the rest of her tea. The direct approach hadn’t worked. A year ago, before Sally and Jane, she would have accepted that quietly, resignedly, as she always had.

  Tonight, she refused to give up.

  The answer would come to her. Helen was determined.

  Her father came home, kissed his wife, and started telling her about his day. Average … not too many orders. Possibly a deal importing cosmetics. Mama started gabbling in Arabic, which Helen was already starting to forget, as her memories of her old life in Jordan slipped through her fingers….

  She suddenly had a brain wave. She got up and went into the kitchen as though unconcerned, getting the cutlery out for dinner.

  “Helen.” Baba’s voice was stern. “What is this your mother is telling me? About some party? You should know better than to even ask.”

  “Oh,” she said lightly, taking water glasses out of the cupboard. “It’s nothing, Baba. Just a grand affair at Sally’s estate in Beverly Hills. Mama didn’t understand—I would never be invited anyway.”

  “What?” He blinked.

  “Well, you know.” Helen shrugged. “Sally is nice to me in school, but of course she and Jane move in different social circles.”

  “Explain that,” Baba said, darkly.

  “Well, you know, Jane’s father is an ambassador. And an ‘honorable’—it’s an English title; he is aristocratic. And Sally is one of the wealthiest heiresses in America. I mean, come on—our family can hardly hope to be seen in public in that company. Sally’s party is very exclusive, strictly for the top girls in school. I don’t mind.”

  Her father’s cheeks had gone a nice shade of puce.

  “You mean she is supposed to be your friend, but she didn’t invite you?”

  Helen shrugged. “Yes, she invited me—after I told her you would never allow it.That way she gets to say she invited me but she knows I won’t show up to mix with the important girls. All their fathers are major movie producers at the very least.” Helen flashed a smile. “That’s life, Baba. You know what this town is like… .”

  “No. No way.” Her father shook his head. “We are as good as any of them.”

  “The party will be chaperoned,” Mama broke in. “Maybe the ambassador will be there. It would be good for our daughter to know such people.”

  “I have made my decision.” Baba’s voice was stern. “You will attend.Tell her I said you may go.Your brother will pick you up at half past ten. Of course you will be modestly dressed. And you will stay with your friends from school. All the girls.”

  “But Sally doesn’t think—”

  “She can hardly take back her invitation. No! My daughter is as good as any of them. As is our family.We are related by marriage to the Hashemites.” He sniffed.“You will go, Helen. Do not argue with me.”

  His daughter turned aside so he could not see her triumphant smile.

  “Of course not, Baba,” she said meekly. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Green Gables. Named after the L. M. Montgomery novel. Mrs. Mona Lassiter was a big fan.

  Green Gables. The biggest and most fabulous estate in Bel Air.

  Paulie Lassiter loved it. It was his home, his castle, and the definition of his status.

  L.A. ran on star power, the electricity that truly supplied the city grid. And Paulie had none of it—nothing but the thick black ooze that poured out of his desert wells in the Lone Star State. He’d grown up poor, and he wanted only the best for his little girl. In America, Hollywood was the best, and Paulie Lassiter, despite his lack of connections, was determined to be a big fish.

  That meant one thing. Conspicuous consumption.The buzz-word of the eighties.

  So what if his name was never mentioned in Variety? Mona, his wife, would be at all the right parties.

  So what if he had nothing breaking out at the box office? He would have the biggest pad in L.A.

  Sally was doing fine at Miss Milton’s. And Paulie kept a fleet of six luxury cars. Ferrari Testarossa, Porsche, Rolls-Royce, Aston Martin …

  Even the garage wing that housed them was specially made. Yeah, Green Gables was the greatest thing since sliced bread. A canny purc
hase of some sloping, dusty land in a good part of Bel Air, and unashamed bribery—make that “campaign contributions”—had gotten Paulie Lassiter, from Belmont,Texas, all the planning permission he needed.

  And boy, had he gone to town.

  Spielberg—in your face!

  Lucas—fuggedaboutit!

  The main house had twenty-two bedrooms—some he’d never gone into. There was an enormous heated pool complex, two kitchens, ten en suite bathrooms, eight dressing rooms, stables, an apple and pear orchard, and a goddamn maze. On top of that, the “guest wing” of the estate had tennis and squash courts, three guest bungalows—modeled after the famous Beverly Hills Hotel—a formal Italian garden planted with lavender, rosemary, and olive trees and dotted with fountains and statuary, and a vast enclosed private gym with full-time trainers on staff. And all that was before you counted the staff accommodation for his ’n’ hers chauffeurs, the maids, the cooks, and the private barman….

  Green Gables had its own private golf course. Eighteen manicured holes.

  Green Gables had a fully stocked poolside bar.

  Green Gables had a helipad, a landing strip, and an aircraft hangar for Paulie’s private jet.

  No wonder he was delighted to show it off!

  “Daddy.” Sally put on her best little-girl voice. It was Saturday, and she was sitting in the enormous eat-in kitchen eating buttermilk pancakes with syrup and watching the fire blazing in the grate. Even in L.A. it occasionally got chilly in winter, and the Lassiters knew how to make the best of it. “Can I have a party?”

  “What kind of a party, honey?”

  Her father moved to the refrigerator to grab a glass of fresh-squeezed juice. It made him feel healthy, even if Momma was fixing him a pile of bacon and sausage for breakfast. Just chuck some fruit on top, get those vitamins. Right?

  “A biiiig party,” Sally wheedled. “For my best friends … Helen and Jane.”

  “I love Jane!” her mother said vaguely. An English diplomat’s daughter was pure class, and wasn’t that why they paid Miss Milton’s the big bucks? “Who’s Helen?”