Glamour

by Louise Bagshawe

  Jaber raised an eyebrow. “You do not have to curtsy to me. Although your manners are as beautiful as your face.”

  She blushed, deeply; hopefully she was tanned enough that he would not notice.

  “I was delighted to get your letter, sir,” she began, formally.

  “Good. And it’s Jaber. I won’t have to spend the afternoon calling you Ms. Al-Yanna, will I?”

  She shook her head. “Haya.”

  “Then come.” He extended a hand. “I have had them cook for us in my mother’s apartments—she is at an Arab children’s conference in Dubai.”

  Haya tried to eat, if only to be polite; she was a guest, it was rude to refuse hospitality. But she was intimidated. Stroppy American businessmen, rude suppliers, government customs officials who enjoyed demonstrating their power; none of them had made her feel like this. She respected Ghada, and Jaber; it was a beautiful country, a rich country, and yet they cared about the nomads, the tribeswomen, the indigent widows she was trying to protect.

  And here she was, in a small corner of the center of power. And he was across the table, as deferential servants attended him, and then her; incredibly handsome, charming, and powerful—not so much in the abstract way one describes a banker or a newspaper magnate, as one having influence, but absolutely, in his own right. As a government official, and a member of a ruling family that still ruled.

  Jaber took his time. He made small talk with her, about the store, the candidates she had interviewed, the GLAMOUR expansion program.

  “And you?” he asked, at length, when she was picking through a delicate pastry of roasted chicken and raisins. “You are taking a full part in this? You look to me as though you were never pregnant at all, although of course I know differently.”

  “This is my first trip abroad since Noor was born.”

  “And it will be profitable,” he said, with a calm assurance. “I wonder, have you been following events here in Ghada?”

  Haya was embarrassed. “I haven’t—I have hardly listened to any news since she was born—I was nursing … busy in the office.” Her voice trailed off.Was that too intimate a detail to have shared with him? Why was she starting to think of Jaber as a friend, rather than who he was? “Anyway,” she added hastily, “I think the New York Times on the plane on the way over was the first paper I’ve really read in months. Please excuse my ignorance, High—” She caught a sight of his face. “Jaber.”

  “Much better,” he said. “And don’t worry. I find it refreshing. Anyway, His Majesty has decided to honor my mother, his cousin, who is widowed, by raising her to the rank of a princess here, with the title Royal Highness. Under our law, these things are at his absolute discretion.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Haya responded automatically, trying to work out what that meant for her company. She already had photos of the sharifa—now princess—in GLAMOUR jewels. Was her work here done, then? They could start a whole new ad campaign on that.

  “And me,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I have been involved in government, as you know. A little more than protocol; there was a dispute with Dubai over some oil pipelines. We managed to reconcile it. I was directly involved with the king in the matter.”

  Haya was confused. “And he moved you out of the protocol section?”

  “I am now foreign minister,” Jaber said. He shrugged. “And my rank has been raised to emir, prince.”

  Haya digested this. “You are a Royal Highness now?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t go on just calling you Jaber.”

  “To do otherwise would be most discourteous,” he replied.

  The servant arrived with a service of mint tea and sweetmeats to round off the meal; Haya thanked him profusely, glad of any distraction. Jaber waved a hand, dismissively; at once the waiter and the other servants melted away.

  “You do not need to court us,” he said brusquely. “I, and my mother, am convinced of your bona fides. My mother will work to promote the Ghadan goods you sell.You can arrange it through my successors in Protocol.”

  “Thank you.” Haya nodded; that would be a real coup. It was what she had come for. But now, should she leave? Her business was concluded.

  “I was wondering if you would consider spending the afternoon with me,” he said, his words suddenly coming out in a rush, uncharacteristically fast. “Not for business—on a date.”

  Haya half jumped in her carved chair. He had asked her—he had actually asked.

  “I—yes, thank you,” she said shyly.

  “That’s good news.” He grinned back, as though tension had been released. “There are some wonderful Persian ruins outside of the city. I thought you might like to go and see them. No chauffeurs—I have my own car.”

  She walked with him around the glorious, crumbling, ancient walls of Shirah, marveling at the winged lions with the heads of bearded men, the carved vulture gods, and cuneiform writing littered around the streets on half-tumbled pillars, now lying amid scrubby desert grass while lizards and butterflies played around them.

  “It’s truly magnificent.”

  “We want to promote this as a tourist destination.” Jaber smiled at her. “I’m glad you like it. My house is near here.”

  “You have a villa in the royal complex?”

  “I do now.”

  Haya nodded. He had told her something of his life: father dead at three, his mother fighting to give him as much normalcy as possible; education in Britain, with a stint in the army as an officer in the Desert Rats; trying to find a place for himself in government, wanting to be useful. And he had probed Haya, gently but efficiently, about Ahmed, about her parents, America, Noor, every part of her life. When she told him about Miss Milton’s, Jaber smiled wryly; he, too, had been bullied at school in the West.

  She found herself trying for reserve. He was so intelligent, so charming, and yet so sharp; and obviously, there was no future for her with him. Nice to go on this date, Haya was telling herself, but you’d be a moron to get those hopes up.

  “The promotion of your family by the king must have been a great joy.”

  “I’d be lying if I said my mother wasn’t thrilled,” Jaber admitted frankly.“Not so much at the rank, although that’s nice for her. But over what it meant for me. King Nazir trusts me. And he’s old; there’s jockeying among his sons over the succession. So for a while, I can do things—change things.We’re building schools in every district, establishing a court system. Eventually I’d like the monarchy to be nothing more than decorative, like it is for the Brits. But it will take time. At least now I can make a start.”

  “And I suppose the king will select a princess for you?” Haya teased.

  He stopped and looked deeply into her eyes; surprised, she could not hold his gaze.

  “I’m old-fashioned. I don’t believe in divorce. I don’t want a succession of wives.The woman must be right—she must be perfect. I have made it clear I will not accept an arranged marriage.”

  “I understand.” Haya would not look up at him. She tried to change the subject. “Look at that amphitheater … amazing.”

  Jaber was having none of it.

  “Yes, let’s sit,” he said. “I want to say something to you.”

  Haya allowed herself to be led to a shady spot; they sat together on the white limestone benches, thousands of years old, with a view of the arena; she wondered if men had died here. It was an old land, beautiful, and full of ghosts.

  “I’d like to see you,” he said. “A lot. I think you’re beautiful. You’re modest, and a lady, but you have something else. A steel spine.You started this amazing business, you flew round the world building it up, you found a way to make money and to help others. I admire how you work with your friends from the West.Yet you are a believer.Your daughter has a Muslim name.”

  Haya smiled.“Her father insisted I change my own. He never liked anglicization.”

  “And you have guts; you’re not afraid to talk of your husband to me. I w
ould not have admired a woman who could abandon his memory.”

  “I loved him.”

  “That is clear.” Jaber put it to her with that directness she liked. “Tell me now, before I fall too deeply. Could you ever love again?”

  “It is possible,” Haya said.“I only loved Ahmed when I got to know him… . I don’t want to rush marriage again, Jaber.”

  “No. Of course.” He was eager. “And you have a child. And an enterprise of your own. I see that you are not about to be mine for the asking, Haya. So I have a proposal. Not of marriage,” he added, with a grin, and she smiled. “Yet. Why do you not establish yourself in Ghada for six months? You can have offices here, you can go on short trips, by car, with your child; I will have the palace provide a nanny, or two.You can buy locally and send your deputies further afield, to Europe. We have all the major technologies you would need—phones, fax. Running water.” He winked. “In essence, you could establish a department here, a buying division.Which you could head.That would consolidate your position in the stores more than a few one-off purchasing jaunts. Meanwhile, your child can grow here, where she will hear Arabic spoken every day.”

  “And I can see you?”

  “I never said I had no ulterior motives.” Jaber shrugged. “Let us see if we like each other, really. Whether or not you do, you will have my protection. In the end, if you can’t stand me, what have you lost? Nothing.Your career will be advanced.”

  She thought about it. She did love Ghada. And she did want to be the equal of Sally, and Jane. It would mean leaving them behind, of course. Haya would be breaking up the trio, for the second time….

  But GLAMOUR was big now. Bigger than all of them. It could no longer be run by three friends making it up as they went along. Haya had tasted power, and competence, and she had liked it. Anita Roddick had managed her own global empire in ethical commerce and become a billionaire in her own right. Why not Haya al-Yanna?

  “It is a brilliant idea,” she said. “Of course, I will have to discuss it with my friends.”

  “But if they say no?”

  She looked at him, and at the beauty of the Persian ruins, with the desert horizon stretching out westward in a shimmering haze of heat.

  “I will still come,” Haya said. She smiled. “I have got used to making my own decisions.”

  They discussed it over dinner, two days after she got back and found Noor thriving and not particularly overwhelmed to see her; the baby was engrossed in loud banging on a tin drum Emily Wilkins had bought her.

  Haya grimaced. “What did I ever do to you?”

  “Hurrrr,” said Noor, happily, smashing her wooden spoon down.

  “Ah, let her enjoy herself. I’ll be putting her down in a minute.” Emily cluck-clucked over the baby, who gurgled and buried her chubby cheeks in Haya’s skirt. “You have a bath and go to your meeting.You can see she survived.”

  “All right,” Haya laughed, looking at her daughter. Wondering how she would cope in the desert. And how Haya would cope without her two friends.

  They dressed up for the meal. Nobody suggested it; all three women knew they had to. At this point, they were minor celebrities, and Sally was turning into a major one. Haya chose a sweeping, floor-length gown of Egyptian cotton in bright yellow, embroidered with green thread, a Kate Spade purse, and one of the jangling Ghadan bracelets; her feet were encased in buttercup yellow leather Manolo strappy sandals with sky-high heels. Sally wore her own red dress, with a GLAMOUR necklace of rubies by Montfort Jewels; Jane chose a cream silk suit with pearls,Wolford tights, and Christian Louboutin shoes in dove gray.

  They met at the Ivy, and posed for pictures outside; arms around each other, smiling and laughing; all three knew the snap would make the business press the next day, Sally in the middle, the golden girl sheathed in in-your-face scarlet; Haya, ethnic, elegant, and stunning, the creamy yellows bright against her clear olive skin; Jane, English and reserved, the picture of the sexy businesswoman.

  “I know what this is about,” Sally said glumly as soon as the waiter had departed. “It’s Noor, isn’t it, Haya? You’re quitting, right? You’ve hired those buyers, and you’re quitting. You want to stay home.”

  Jane looked at her quizzically.

  “I’m not quitting.” Haya felt the tears well up; it had been such a wonderful ride with them, so rewarding, and thrilling; success on their own terms, and a friendship that had lasted all through their lives. “But I am leaving.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Haya explained her proposition, leaving out the part about Jaber; that was too precious, and too fragile, a thing to talk about, just now.

  Jane listened in silence and then looked over at Sally.

  “You can’t leave!” Sally was saying. “We’ll never manage …”

  “But we will,” Jane said.“And actually … I think I should go, too.”

  Sally blinked. “What?”

  “To New York.”

  “I don’t get it. Who’s gonna train the staff?” Sally demanded. “And what are you talking about? I can’t manage the damn store by myself.”

  “I have VPs there now who can train the staff. Ari Gabriel, he’s brilliant. Lillian Kovac. I trust them. You have to delegate. Even you, Sal.”

  “Salads, ladies!”

  The waiter put down their salads with the fried soft-shell crabs, wittered on about the wine list, and mercifully, eventually, vanished.

  “We’re too big,” Jane said, simply. “You guys have to decide what you want. The company can’t go on like this, with us in L.A. I need to be in New York. I’ll do the banking, the real estate, the distribution deals. Sally—you’re the designer and the public face; you are GLAMOUR—what every little girl wants to be. We don’t need you stuck in a back office in L.A., we need you out there, on magazine covers. And if you’re the face, Haya is the soul. She needs to establish the fair-trade business and get a steady flow of goods and art to stock multiple stores around the world. Which will mean building up a buying division. She can do that properly in the region, not here. She’s wasted in L.A. So am I. But it’s where you should be—you’re the star.”

  Haya told them about Jaber’s mother.

  “I love it!” Sally momentarily forgot her anger. “Get a princess to a photo shoot? I’ll do it with her.That’ll make Elle. Maybe Vanity Fair, if we do it right.”

  “You’re the glitz, Sal; now we have some royal gravitas.That’ll help in New York. All they talk about is the American Queen of Jordan.” Jane grinned. “My goodness, girls, this is really going to be big.”

  “And it means we can’t stay together?” Sally asked glumly.

  “It’s not like we won’t be friends,” Haya replied.“We still will.”

  “I know it has to happen.” Sally sounded heartbroken. “I just … I didn’t think it would be this soon.”

  “It’s just life,” Haya said, and examined Jane. “There’s a man, isn’t there? Craig Levin. He lives in New York.”

  “He has a house here,” Jane said defensively.

  “But he mainly lives there.”

  She couldn’t deny it. “It may have something to do with this, yes.”

  Sally clapped her hands. “The ice maiden melts?”

  Jane blushed. “God help me, I love him,” she said; and her girlfriends thought she sounded a little despairing. “But that’s why you can stay here, Sally, isn’t it? You’re practically living with Chris Nelson.”

  Sally blushed. “Actually, I am living with him. I moved in yesterday.”

  “What about your mom?”

  “She’s in a guest cottage at his estate in Malibu, but she’s talking about getting her own apartment. There’s a luxury block in Century City.” Sally smiled. “She likes Chris—doesn’t want to scare him off. And she doesn’t need me anymore.”

  “And you?” Sally flicked her fountain of glossy, blonde hair. “Haya … you have been very quiet on the subject. But I know these things.There’s something in your eyes. Is t
here a man?”

  “Possibly.” She wouldn’t say any more. “In Ghada … but I don’t know; we haven’t really started going out yet… .”

  “Well, you’ll need to be back here in six months,” Sally said firmly. “With or without your date.”

  “And why is that?”

  “We weren’t going to announce it, but since you two are skipping town …” Sally lowered her voice. “Chris and I are getting married.”

  “Sally!”

  “Sally Lassiter! Over here!”

  “Give us a smile, baby! Let’s see that rock!”

  Sally turned and waved, and gave them a dazzling smile. “There you go.” She extended her finger, to display the princess-cut natural pink diamond, three carats, a million dollars.

  “I have to go shopping,” she informed the crowd of photographers, blinking her long lashes at them.

  “Sal! Gonna get your wedding dress in the store?” somebody shouted.

  She practically purred.“Of course.What do you think inspired me to open GLAMOUR’s bridal boutique? And I’m getting my wedding day scent specially blended for me in GLAMOUR Paris. Chris and I are going there on our honeymoon.”

  They loved it. The flashbulbs popped again. She was now almost as famous as he was. But Sally was quick on her feet; she turned and dashed into the store, waving to shoppers who were dizzy with excitement, while security guards escorted her to the staff elevator. Make them wait outside; the press always had to be left hungry, wanting more. Sally was shopping at GLAMOUR for the sports wedding of the year. That was what they needed to know.

  “Great stuff out there.” Maxi, her assistant and PR booker, rushed to greet her, bearing Sally’s usual tall glass of fizzy water and crushed ice with lime.

  “You watched?”

  “From a window.You work them like you were born to it.”

  Oh, I was, Sally thought.

  “And the New York Times called.They want to do a Style section feature on you and GLAMOUR …”

  “Say yes.”

  “Access Hollywood wants to film the wedding …”