Glamour

by Louise Bagshawe

  “If you can get me there half an hour faster I will pay you a bonus,” she said, “especially if you take me as close as you can to where this visit is happening.”

  It was a triumph. First, Haya had the pleasure of seeing the work presented to her by Begum Fahdah al-Ali, the widow of a former chief. She had organized this group, of abandoned or poor women, many of them widows or now-grown street children, who had lived in grinding poverty. They worked the tiny metal disks into the most delicate, exquisite pieces.There would be no problem in selling these as they deserved to be treated, Haya thought, as her husband had planned to do: as works of art. She signed a deal, the women toasted it with mint tea, and she left money behind, just as down payment; the joy with which it was received made her day.

  And second, with great determination and a couple of sample necklaces in her hand, Haya had approached a woman in the sheikha’s retinue, an efficient-looking matronly sort in a Western suit with a neat scarf tied around her hair, and sunglasses. The lady would not see her now, she was told, but she took a number, and said somebody from the palace would be in touch.Yes, they liked to support the work of traditional craftswomen, and yes, they were looking for trade opportunities with the States. If the sheikha could be sure that the deal the women were getting was fair …

  Haya had no doubts on that score. She left a card with the protocol officer and took a cab back to the hotel.There she took a long bath, washed her hair, and went to lie down on the bed, wrapped in a soft white toweling robe; her room was air-conditioned, and all she wanted to do was sleep well, then rise and get on the plane.

  Job done. Nothing more to do than to wait for the birth of her child …

  The phone rang. Sighing deeply, she rolled on her side to answer it.

  “Hello?”

  “May I speak to Haya al-Yanna, please?”

  The voice was modulated; Arab with an English accent, she thought, educated abroad; a young man.

  “Speaking.”

  “Ms. Al-Yanna, my name is Jaber ibn Mohammed. I work for the palace and the government of Ghada.”

  Haya closed her eyes briefly. Damn it, a call she couldn’t blow off.

  “It’s good of you to call,” she lied.

  “I understand you are to fly back to the States first thing tomorrow. Do you have time for a meeting earlier this evening? I can come to the Radisson.”

  “Of course, I’d be delighted.”

  “If we are going to get involved in any project like this, we have to vet it.”

  “I quite understand,” Haya said, mentally relinquishing her night off.“Is six o’clock convenient? We could meet in the lobby, or have dinner.”

  “Wonderful. See you then.”

  “Wonderful,” Haya echoed, and hung up. Damnation. She set her mobile phone to alarm; at least she’d have half an hour, and anything was better than nothing.

  He was waiting in the lobby. Haya was surprised to see he was a young man, maybe a little older than herself, and tall, with an aquiline nose and aristocratic, searching eyes. Olive-skinned, with a tan from the sun, and a beautifully cut suit; a strong body, she thought, not bulky.

  “Ms. Al-Yanna.Thank you for seeing me.”

  “Thank you for coming.”

  His eyes swept over her, appreciatively, she thought, and then blinked; his glance had come to rest on her belly.

  “You’re pregnant,” he blurted out.

  She smiled. “Yes, mash’Allah.”

  “Excuse me—I didn’t mean to be rude. I was just surprised. Is your husband with you?”

  “I’m a widow,” she replied coolly.

  He flushed, embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

  “How could you know?” she replied graciously.

  “Shall we eat?” Initially confident, Haya could see he’d been thoroughly fazed. “Uh, a pregnant woman shouldn’t go too long without dinner.They have some good cuisine here, even though it’s a chain; some local dishes on the menu.”

  “That sounds good.” Haya was pleased; he was thoughtful, she was hungry, and now he’d be trapped with her for as long as it took to eat a meal—long enough to pitch him on her plan.

  “Then come this way.” And to her surprise, he offered her his arm.

  Beautiful manners, she thought. And a handsome face. And then felt instantly disloyal to Ahmed. She was six months pregnant, even if it had not showed too badly on her body, except for the gentle swell of her stomach.What was she doing thinking about another man like that?

  They ordered a perfectly reasonable meal, some local specialities, vine leaves wrapped around spiced meats, tiny roasted birds, a Ghadan version of tabbouleh, and a lemony goat cheese in oils and herbs. She discovered Jaber had been educated at Cambridge—St. John’s College, he said—and had served a military apprenticeship in the United States, at West Point.

  Haya told him some of her story. Just a little, though; she did not want to drag Ahmed too far into it.

  “I must ask you about your store,” he said eventually, getting down to business.

  “It’s going to be prestigious and luxurious, and will charge high prices. We have backing from a senior financier—Craig Levin.”

  “Levin,” he responded, clearly impressed.

  “I am a full partner; the site is my husband’s former gallery. My further role is to source art from the Middle East. We are hoping to engage in ethical commerce, to buy from women, and to pay them fair prices.”

  “And to make a profit.”

  Haya was unabashed. “Yes; like the Body Shop, this is a for-profit enterprise. In the end, you know, these women do not need handouts, they need long-term commercial partners. That can only be sustained if the buyers are making a profit.”

  He smiled slightly. “You sound like a woman who knows her own mind.”

  “I am.” Haya inclined her head. “And we must be perfectly honest with you, since we want the participation of a sheikha or a princess.”

  “That is true.”

  “The photograph of that lady in the jewelry will help our cause; it will make our company richer—it will make me richer.” Haya blushed a little. “Although I have no doubt these pieces are of sufficient quality to sell without it. But it will also benefit these women who are your citizens and more generally help in my plan to keep trading ethically with the Middle East. Eventually we’ll be in other places, too—Europe, Africa, Asia.Wherever there are women with skills that we can help through business.” Haya smiled. “So you see, Mr. Ibn Mohammed, I’m trying to be honest; it’s a business proposition, though, in the end.”

  “And a sound one.” He paused, his eyes traveling across her. “As long as you can prove you will be paying a fair market price to the Ghadan women who are supplying you.”

  “As soon as I get home, I will fax the documents to the palace.”

  “Very good.” He smiled, lightly, and his eyes moved, again, across her face; Haya was embarrassed, and looked away. “Then we may be able to do business. I suppose you will not be back here for some time?”

  “Not until after the birth of my child.”

  “I can see Sheikha Alia consenting to the photographs. If you do well with sales, and our women are benefiting, a more senior woman from the royal family might become involved. The king does want that trade.”

  “That’s wonderful news,” Haya said, blushing.

  “But we would want a bigger shift of your buying to Ghada—including carpets and lamps and so forth.”

  “I would hope we will open more than one store,” Haya replied confidently. “But I wouldn’t come back to you unless it happened. And we could order a lot more from Ghada.”

  “Then I’m sure we can do business.” He lifted his glass of mineral water to her in a toast.

  “I’m glad to hear it, Mr. Ibn Mohammed.”

  “Please call me Jaber.”

  “Then Haya.” She smiled.

  “And …” He hesitated.“It isn’t Mister … as it happens. I take a close interest in
the affairs of Sheikha Alia because she’s my mother.”

  Haya’s water went down the wrong way; she spluttered a little, embarrassed.

  “You mean …” He said nothing. “I’m sorry, Highness,” she said, wanting to run off and hide.

  “Nothing to be sorry for. I led you to believe otherwise. I should apologize … it’s just that I hold a government position, and I’d rather be dealt with that way, than as a member of the family.”

  Haya saw he hadn’t said royal—he hadn’t had to.

  “I understand. Highness,” she added, again.

  “I’d much prefer Jaber.” He signaled for the waiter, and spoke to him in the Ghadan dialect, too fast for Haya to follow.“I should be leaving—I hope you have a pleasant flight, Ms. Al-Yanna—”

  “Haya.”

  “Haya.” He grinned. “And we’ll be in touch.”

  She wondered if she should stand and curtsy, but it was too late. He bowed briefly to her, turned, and left.

  “I’d like to check out, please.”

  “Certainly, madam.”

  “Room 406.” Haya slid across her key and her credit card. “There were some phone calls to the States, and two bottles of mineral water… .”

  “It’s quite alright, madam; there’s no charge.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your bill has been settled by the Kingdom of Ghada. Orders of His Highness Sheikh Jaber.”

  “Dinner, perhaps …”

  “The entire bill, madam.”

  “I see.” Haya bit back a smile. “How generous of His Highness. Could you possibly arrange for a taxi to take me to the airport?”

  “That won’t be necessary, ma’am. His Highness has sent a government limo for you. It’s been waiting outside for an hour.”

  All the way home Haya told herself it was just a courtly gesture. She had done some important business, maybe secured a PR coup.That was what mattered.

  Jaber was a sheikh, and a government minister. He was probably married already. A man in his position was not going to be interested in a pregnant widow. It was important to keep her feet on the ground.

  Even in the first-class section of her Royal Ghadan Airlines flight—since, when she got to the airport, Haya found Sheikh Jaber had ordered her business-class ticket upgraded.

  When she got home, she had one of Jane’s assistants fax the business details to Jaber’s office. She was now starting to grow heavy with her child, and she wanted to leave the grand opening to Jane and Sally. Haya had walked through the store, seen the beautiful displays of the things she had sourced; together with Sally’s exuberant fashions, they would be the heart and soul of GLAMOUR.

  Right now, though, she had a baby to attend to. It was foolish to hope for romance, and she didn’t want her heart broken twice. She made no attempt to contact Ghada other than through the office. She decorated the nursery instead, a nice neutral yellow. No man was going to want to raise another’s child, and even if he did, Haya was not sure whom she’d consider worthy.

  Once the baby was born she’d forget about any romantic considerations.

  She hoped.

  “Well?” Sally stood back, and just looked at it. “Are you girls ready?”

  She had her arms linked with her two friends. Jane on her right, Haya, almost ready to pop, on her left.They were standing in the parking lot, looking at the store.

  It was six thirty, and the sun was sinking over the horizon, streaking the L.A. sky with a spectacular show of golds and reds. The building, gleaming white, was hung with banners of gold and silver silk, and pennants of scarlet and blue flying from every corner; it looked like a ticker-tape parade.

  “Tomorrow,” Haya said. “I can’t wait.”

  “Nor me.” Jane agreed.

  Tomorrow they would open. The big day; the climax of months of grindingly hard work, of forcing themselves to act like a team, even when it got annoying. Exquisitely appointed, staffed by experts, and laid out, as Sally said, “like Christmas morning,” they thought it was the hottest, richest, most luxurious store in the world.

  The full-service beauty parlor.The roving reflexologists, ready to offer manicures and hand massages to tired shoppers. The fabulous goods, the soft lighting and dove gray carpeting, the mood music and attentive staff, the valet parking, the gift-wrap service …

  It was a dream.

  “They’re all coming.” The other two knew Sally was talking about the press. “The Times, the Observer, the Citizen,Variety, the Hollywood Reporter—everybody.”

  “Tough crowd,” Jane observed.

  “Let’s hope it works,” Haya said.

  “It will.” Sally was determined. “It has to.” She looked at her friends, all three of them, in this moment, young, beautiful, and determined. “Get your rest in, ladies. We have to look good.”

  “Jane! What does it feel like for the store to be this mobbed?”

  “Sally! Are you taking the offer from Chanel?”

  “No,” she shouted, trying to be heard.

  Behind them, in the store, it was pandemonium. Jane had told them to be calm; her staff were wonderful, they had everything under control.

  “Haya! When is the baby due? Boy or a girl?”

  The flashbulbs popped around them; reporters shouted questions. As word of the frenzy at the store got out, more and more journalists had showed up. It was beginning to resemble a movie premiere.

  “GLAMOUR by name, glamour by nature,” Sally whispered, nudging Jane.

  Haya squeezed her hand. “I don’t feel so good. It’s crowded in here.”

  “I’ll get rid of them,” Jane whispered back. Her friend looked bad; her face was pale, and her breathing was labored. They’d done more than enough questions; Sally was brilliant with the media.

  Whatever happened now, opening day would be a triumph.

  Jane stood up. “Ladies and gentlemen—”

  “Uuuugh,” Haya groaned, to her left, and doubled forward, clutching the table.

  “Haya! What is it?” Sally reached across, pushing her chair back.

  “My water!” Haya gasped. “It broke. Oh, God! Get me to the hospital, Sal!”

  Jane said unceremoniously,“That’s it, we’re done,” and helped Sally to support Haya under the arms; she was writhing and moaning, obviously in serious pain.

  “My car’s closest!” Sally shouted.

  “Right. Come on.” The two girls took Haya out, stumbling between them, and a second forest of lightbulbs popped and flashed as they passed.

  “Ms. Al-Yanna, your mother is here,” said the midwife.“Shall I send her in?”

  Haya screamed.

  “Send her in!” Jane said.

  “I need Ms. Al-Yanna’s permission,” the woman fussed.

  Jane turned to her with an icy-cold face. “She’s a little busy right now. And I heard her say yes.”

  “So did I,” Sally chimed in.

  “Send her mother in.” Jane’s voice brooked no argument, and the woman obeyed.

  The baby was close now, very close. Jane could see the head crowning. She gripped Haya’s hand, sweaty and hot, to encourage her; Sally was hooking her legs back.

  “Here he comes,” Haya gasped.The door swung open and her mother bustled in, saying something rapid in Arabic Jane didn’t understand. She let go of Haya’s hand.

  “No!” Haya said. “Stay! All of you stay!”

  The older woman grabbed her other hand, leaned over, and whispered something to her daughter; Haya screamed again; and the baby popped out of the womb in a wet, slithery rush, into the waiting arms of the doctor, who took the child, rubbed a towel all over it, and cut the cord.

  “Let me see!” Haya cried.

  The doctor brought the baby across, wrapped in a striped cotton blanket. She said,“Here, Ms. Al-Yanna, a beautiful daughter.”

  Haya’s mother’s face fell.

  “A girl,” Haya said wonderingly.

  Sally cooed, “How precious—she’s so tiny.”
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br />   “She’s perfect, absolutely perfect.” Haya’s face was a picture of joy, and Jane did not need to ask if she was disappointed. She bent down and kissed the baby on the forehead. “Praise be to God,” she said.“I love her … her name is Noor. Light. Because she’s the light of my life.”

  Mrs. Al-Yanna, with the beginnings of a smile, leaned over and kissed her daughter and granddaughter.

  “Congratulations,” Sally said, with tears in her eyes.

  “She’s adorable. We’ll see you later,” Jane said. But Haya was already lost in her baby.

  “Come on, Sal.” Jane wiped away a little tear from her own eye; she thought briefly of the mother she barely remembered. “It’s been a long day. Let’s go get some lunch.”

  They sat in the front of Jane’s Porsche, the top rolled up, at a discreet distance, eating thin-cut roast beef sandwiches and drinking iced Diet Cokes, watching the parking lot.

  There was a constant line to get in and out; women swarmed around the lot like well-dressed ants, weighed down with GLAMOUR’s signature glossy navy and gold bags. Every few minutes, male attendants in crisp navy GLAMOUR uniforms appeared carrying rolled-up carpets, more bags, or heavy items of furniture, and transported them to waiting SUVs.

  “I guess those articles that came out last week really helped,” Sally observed.

  Jane licked a spot of mustard off her lower lip. “It’s only the first day.We can’t get carried away. Lots of PR.We have to see if it’s sustained.”

  “But this is good,” Sally insisted. “At Wave, we had something a bit like this. And it stayed that way until I quit for GLAMOUR.”

  “Yeah.” She could not deny it.“It’s good.” Her brow furrowed a little. “I hope we have enough stock… .”

  Sally hit her. “Cheer up.”

  They grinned at each other, companionably.

  “I’m going back to the office. Field some more press queries, do a debrief of the staff at the end of the day.” Jane sucked up the last of her Diet Coke. “Call our bankers.”

  “You mean Craig Levin,” Sally suggested slyly.

  Jane blushed. “Last time I looked, he was our banker.”

  “You won’t be able to hold him off forever,” Sally said. “I’m going in to the store. I’m gonna serve behind the counter, like at Wave.”