Glamour

by Louise Bagshawe

  “Perfect,” Jane said, happy, reassured.

  He still liked her. He was still interested. It wasn’t wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. Yes, there was some reserve there, but she found it all the sexier, all the more exciting. For once, she was the pursuer. And every time he looked at her, every time that English voice complimented her, Jane thrilled with happiness.

  The sex still wasn’t great, but she didn’t care. She went along, easily enough. It was the price of being with someone so charming. And that was what a relationship was….

  Over the next week, at work, she floated through her days, her mind only half on her work. Thinking about Jude, waiting for him to call. They met at odd hours now: in the middle of the night, at lunchtime, often, and then she would duck out of meetings at three or four. Nobody complained. Jane was invaluable. They gossiped a little about how starry-eyed she was, and she knew they could see she was in love. So what? Someday, she knew, she’d be announcing an engagement….

  And then one day, at the start of September, he rang.

  “Baby.” That soft, familiar tone at the end of the workday. How she loved to hear it. “You have to come over to the hotel.”

  Jane glanced at the clock: four forty-five. Good enough.

  “On my way,” she said, grabbing her bag and hanging up. These days, all Jude had to do was call, and she came running.

  “So.” He rolled off her, stretched out for a minute, then jumped up from the bed. Jane grabbed the sheet and held it around her shoulders; when Jude walked away from her—he didn’t like to cuddle much—she always felt more naked than naked. “I’m going to miss you,” he said, grabbing his dressing gown and pulling it on, casually.

  Jude wasn’t looking at her. Jane was highly intelligent; she felt the tiny hairs prickle on her arms, and jumped out of bed herself, reaching for her clothes.

  “Miss me? Are you going somewhere?”

  “Well, the summer’s over,” he said, lightly. “Time to push on home.”

  “I thought you were staying,” Jane said, worriedly. “You’re going back to England? I have a major project, restaffing in Arizona. I can’t get leave for a while.”

  Jude sighed and reached toward the table where a packet of Marlborough Lights was half-open; his eyes slid away from her, and he looked out of the window.

  “Leave? To come and see me? I don’t think that’s such a great idea, darling.”

  She shivered. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, come on, don’t make this difficult.” He jumped up and started to pace around the room, then said, quickly, as though wanting to get the words out, “I’m going home—you’re staying here. This was a holiday romance, great while it lasted, but I don’t think we’ve got a future. Not long-term.You’ve got your career… .”

  Jane was seized with blind panic. He was leaving her … abandoning her….

  “Is there someone else?” she whispered.

  “Yes,” Jude said, brutally.“Actually, more than one. I just don’t want to be tied down.You’re beautiful, sweetheart, but you’re just too … clingy.”

  Numbly, Jane pulled on her panties and bra, and reached for her skirt.

  “And we don’t have an awful lot in common. In fact,” he said, sauntering toward the bathroom, “there’s history … isn’t there? Your father … well, it wouldn’t be right. Not in England, anyway. Not after what he did. I’m sure you can see that, Jane.You’ll be better off here, with a Yank—somebody who won’t ask too many awkward questions… .”

  Her hands trembled as she did up the buttons of her shirt. Jane fought it, but the shock and loss … the embarrassment … it was rejection, it was utter humiliation….

  Deliberately not looking at her, he walked into the bathroom, and she heard him switch on the shower.

  Jane dressed as quickly as she could, her heart thumping and her mind racing. Nothing in common … clingy … better off here … your father …

  And then, even as the tears were rolling down her cheeks, Jane suddenly, in a flash of light, understood everything. Why she’d felt so attracted … why she’d jumped on him … why she’d wanted him, desperately, even when the sex was lousy and the conversation strained….

  Her father. Jude was English. In some weird way he’d reminded her of Thomas … but he had wanted her. Praised her. Spent time with her. Lavished attention on her …

  She had been trying to claw back the love she hadn’t received … romantic attention from a boyfriend, instead of the fatherly love Thomas Morgan never gave her.

  And the others? The Americans, with whom she was supposed to click? None of them had stood a chance. None of them could be a father substitute, none of them could pay back her pain….

  She steadied herself, one hand pressed against her heart, looking out over Central Park, the leaves just starting to redden and brown. It was so clear, so revelatory.

  Jude was nothing. She had lost her virginity to nothing.

  Calm now, Jane reached for her coat. No more; no longer. That was all over. She would go on, and succeed, and win, despite what Thomas Morgan had done to her. If love came, it would come. But Jane Morgan was not about to go looking for it. And she would not use romance to heal a childhood wound.

  Jude’s dressing gown, his clothes, and his packed suitcase lay on the bed. Jane glanced out of the window; below them was a terrace. Casually, Jane tossed everything Jude owned out of the window—the suitcase was heavy, but she made it—and walked out of his suite, leaving the door wide open.

  On the way home, she probed herself, her feelings.Yes—she felt a little stupid. But also, somehow free. As though now she could see things clearly. And for that, Jane almost felt grateful to Jude. A stuck-up trust fund brat with no purpose in life except sex and snobbery; and he wasn’t even good at the sex. But his careless betrayal had finally ripped the blinders off Jane’s eyes.

  All in all, she told herself, cheaper than therapy.

  She pressed the button and allowed the crisp, cool air to drift into the cab. It was refreshing, invigorating. The snap of autumn in New York.

  Holiday was over.Time to get to work.

  In her apartment, Jane found the answering machine was blinking. She pressed it.

  “You goddamn bitch!” Jude’s voice screeched. He sounded petutlant, womanish, and Jane laughed. “I’ve got to call damn housekeeping now … they might blab … this could make the gossip columns … I’ll be a laughingstock …”

  She pressed delete, went to her refrigerator, and, ignoring the yellowing celery and Chinese leftovers in their cartons, went straight for the chilled bottle of champagne. Jane poured herself a glass, slowly, and sipped it, thinking hard.

  She needed a change. Out of this relationship—that was done. Out of her job, too. It was no longer any fun in human resources. She could be comfortable there, but no more.

  Jane wanted ownership. She wanted it to be her helicopter, her house in the Hamptons. She’d seen a slogan in a dime store once—“It’s a strong man who can prevail in the face of comfort.”

  Too right. She was getting lazy. Middle management was not in her game plan. Let them promote her to the main board, give her a division to run—and stock—and she’d get on a plane, go back to Los Angeles. She was overwhelmed with a desire to recapture some of what she had lost. Find Sally Lassiter, even if Sally had disappeared; find Helen, even if Helen was babied up in a Cairo suburb. They had private investigators these days that were as good as the FBI.This was America; money opened every door.

  Yes. As the alcohol cheered and relaxed her, Jane smiled. Time to put her cards on the table. Shop Smart and she would play a game of chicken, and Jane was not going to be the one who blinked.

  CHAPTER 9

  Their first trip to America was a big success.

  Baba and Mama met them at the airport; they hugged and cried, and were obviously so sincerely overjoyed to see Haya, that she could forgive the smug look in her father’s eyes. He was triumphing because she was wearing tra
ditional dress and speaking Arabic, and so obviously in love with Ahmed.

  “I was right,” he kept saying on the drive back from the airport. “You see darling? I was right.We did know best.”

  Haya wanted to explode, but Ahmed, in the backseat with her, kept pressing her hand, his eyes lit up with amusement. And then he switched to tracing an A with his fingers, slowly, in the small of her back. A for Ahmed.Telling Haya she was his. It turned her on, and she found her rage was defused.

  Ahmed, this time not wary of his arranged bride, looked at L.A. with open eyes.With Haya’s eyes.Yes, it was brash, and Western, and vulgar in lots of ways, but it was also exciting, big, and rich. His wife’s enthusiasm was infectious. He loved that about her—she made life an adventure.

  And his father-in-law had kept his word. There was a meeting at Neiman Marcus, at Saks, and at the Beverly Hills Hotel. And all three places agreed to buy a carpet or two; Ahmed had brought some of his finest examples. Before the month was out, he had a small, interested client base.

  “We could be more,” Haya suggested. “Sell in department stores, regularly. Of course, such things take time… .” She looked up at Ahmed under her lashes. “And also presence.”

  “You mean move here?” he said slowly.

  “Talal could run the Egyptian store.We could buy a place … import some of the stock … just for a year or so. See how we like it.” Haya grinned. “I’m a U.S. citizen, remember? No problems there.”

  “I don’t know. It’s a big step.” Ahmed looked down at her, sternly. He had already decided he wanted to do just that, but he enjoyed playing games with his willing, eager little wife.

  “We should do it,” she said, “Please …”

  He ran a finger down her cheek. “Persuade me.”

  In the end it was seamless. Haya trained Talal, his manager, on the computer; they organized insurance, and wages for his staff; a cousin from Aswân came with his wife to stay in the house and pay a peppercorn rent. And Haya took her dowry, paid to Ahmed, and some of the profits from their last year’s trading, and purchased a house; Ahmed approved of the third place she showed him, a comfortable, modern villa in mock Spanish style at the foot of the Hollywood Hills, on a quiet street away from the tourist hot spots.The garden was small, but verdant, and they were in the thick of everything; and Ahmed enjoyed the large television, the power showers with multiple jets, the soft mattresses, the air-conditioning….

  They moved in, storing a pile of their best carpets in a guest room. Haya helped set up the new American company, and Ahmed made the sales and closed the deals. As easy as the move had been, business was not quite so simple.The famous stores had their suppliers already, and while he moved a carpet a month, the larger orders were slow in coming.

  But America was an adventure for Ahmed. He enjoyed going to the beach every day, swimming in the ocean, trying the different foods, and taking trips; San Francisco, with the tall, prehistoric cedars of Muir Woods, the fortress of Alcatraz, and the disturbing cable cars; and Haya blossomed even more, at home, where she was confident.They nestled in the modern house and made love daily, and they flew back to Egypt four times a year, as he pushed and pushed to establish himself.

  Slow going, but the orders rose, and rose, and they moved toward prosperity.

  Yet he was disturbed by one thing: the months came and went, and still the wife of his heart was not pregnant.

  Haya leaned on the balcony of the kitchen window; it was low-slung and looked out into their little garden, one of her favorite spots. The sun beamed down on the terrace; she might lounge out there later, under an umbrella, sipping a chilled grapefruit juice with selzer, her latest favorite drink. But despite making lazy plans, her heart was full.

  She couldn’t find her friends. At first there had been a rush of activity; calling the school, checking the newspaper reports in the public library … but nothing, no answers for her. Just a grainy picture of Jane with some young lawyer, outside a courtroom, and Sally Lassiter, her head up, her hand in front of a camera, refusing to talk.

  They were gone. And when she’d looked in the phone book, she found there were 407 people with the name Jane Morgan in Los Angeles County alone.

  She wanted to hire an investigator. But that took money, and it was slow going, the business here. Ahmed was happy, and so was she, but they had not spread their wings the way Haya had hoped.

  She wanted more.When her husband came back that night—he’d made five thousand on the placement of a beautiful Afghan in the beach house of a famous actor—Haya asked him if she could come along.

  “Your meeting tomorrow.With Richard Drayson.”

  The sales director of Broderick Stores. Ahmed was going to try, yet again, to get a department store to place a major ongoing order.

  It would be the sixth such pitch meeting he’d had this year. Something was going wrong—they were failing, somehow. Haya wanted to see why.

  “If you’d like to,” Ahmed said. “Sure.Why not?”

  “We think you have good pieces, Mr. Al-Amin.” The buyer’s eyes were flat. “And we’ll happily take two rugs.”

  “We were hoping for a proper order,”Ahmed said.“The small sales do not cover overhead.We are a reliable supplier and cannot be beaten on price.”

  Drayson shook his head.

  “Your goods are certainly superior, but I can’t take the risk.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Haya protested.

  “Our traders deal with thousands of rugs per year.They have shipping systems and a constant supply of product.They get exclusive, or nearly so, presence in the stores because we rely on them. I can’t offend them in order to take a chance with somebody who, frankly, is small potatoes.You have good carpets, Mr. Al-Amin, but you’re strictly nickel-and-dime.”

  Ahmed’s eyes darkened, and he opened his mouth to speak, but Haya laid a gentle hand softly on his shoulder.

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Drayson,” she said. He was only being honest.

  “So you’ll sell us the two carpets. Good.”

  “No,” Ahmed said, suddenly, looking at Haya. “I’m afraid not. We’re going to go into business for ourselves, and from now on the line will be exclusive.”

  She beamed back. Her thought exactly. She was so proud of Ahmed—they were hand in glove. Mash’Allah, Haya prayed silently, thank God for my husband.

  That very afternoon, they got to work: found the site—ironically, an old carpet warehouse at a dusty road intersection; applied for planning permission; and sought out an architect. Baba knew builders—Ahmed was going to make his own gallery.

  Haya suggested the name: Sekhmet. The ancient Egyptian goddess of vengeance and war, lioness-headed, beautiful and fierce. How they were going to deal with the competition. She designed the statue that stood outside: striking, playing up their heritage, and of course colossal, like everything in L.A. Ahmed worked with the architect for huge windows, lots of light, UV protection built in.

  No more fussy, dusty rooms.

  It was their vision, and they worked to make it happen. In the gallery, the carpets were stretched out, displayed like paintings. Each as individual as a jewel. To keep costs low, they went for good light, clean walls, and little else. Baba contacted his network; Ahmed his sales prospects; on opening weekend they sold ten carpets.

  Not brilliant, but respectable. Solid.

  Haya brought in flowers and Moroccan mint tea. Ahmed placed a small advertisement in the L.A.Times.The second week, they sold another twelve carpets.

  The gallery was profitable.They were on their way. It was hard work, but Haya enjoyed it, and they continued staying up late together, making love in the bathroom, at home, on the backseat of their car, like teenagers, in a secluded spot. They increased the trips back home, and she got used to dealing with suppliers, visiting the tribal weavers, talking to customs men. Haya’s Arabic became perfect, and she was happy; she loved her husband, loved her job, loved her life. They were crafting a future; they became
comfortable, and she wanted more. And Ahmed, so dominant in the bedroom, outside of it was her partner and ally. Haya had everything, except her friends. And, insh’Allah, a child.

  “It’s so good to meet you.” Marcus Hardie, the sales director, looked at Haya and gave her a perfunctory smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “So often in our business we never get to see the family.Your husband has quite the business model; you must be very proud.”

  Ahmed’s eyes danced as Haya’s flashed with annoyance.

  “Actually, my wife had a good deal to do with this.”

  “Of course. We all need the support at home. Couldn’t get it done without that.”

  Support! This whole thing had been her idea. Haya stiffened with anger. Now everybody—well, not Ahmed, but everybody else—was trying to take the credit away from her.

  Baba insisted it was because of his contacts.The press ran stories about the little carpet-seller turned gallery owner. Now the Fayelle Galleria marketing man was ignoring her, too. Even when Ahmed specifically introduced her as his wife and partner.

  It drove her crazy.

  “We think the first consignment should be no more than fifty carpets,” she said firmly.

  “Per store? We’ll want more than that.”

  “Not per store. For the United States.” His chain of luxury goods stores was important, but not vital. “You should have no more than one or two per store, but in Manhattan and Beverly Hills we could go for five.”

  “That’s not going to happen, little lady,” Marcus said. He switched his attention back to Ahmed. “What numbers did you have in mind?”

  “You heard my wife.”

  “Our customers want product.”

  “And they’ll get it,” Haya said, “eventually. After the carpets become impossible to obtain.When there’s a waiting list—like a Kelly bag from Hermès.”

  “A what?”

  “We like to create excitement. These items are works of art. It is an approach that has worked here in the Sekhmet Gallery,” Ahmed pointed out.

  “Always leave them wanting more. When you have orders in hand for fifty, we ship another ten. It will create a feeding frenzy,” Haya said.