Glamour

by Louise Bagshawe

  “The press is coming,” Sally told Jane, bluntly.“They got word of what we’re doing—and the fight.”

  “You told them?”

  “No,” Sally replied coldly.“There are three sets of lawyers’ offices involved now, Jane.”

  Jane pursed her lips. Damnation.

  “Then I suppose the answer is dress well and act civilly. If the analysts think we’re at each other’s throats, the IPO will be disappointing. They need to understand we remain a team—you and I, at least. Haya’s out of the game.”

  “Agreed. See you Monday,” Sally said crisply, and hung up.

  Jane was listening to a dial tone. Slowly, she replaced the receiver. She had no doubt that Monday afternoon, Pacific, she would be making the deals with institutions that would give her control. So why did she feel so down?

  Her phone rang again—and Jane jumped. But it was only the double tone that meant the concierge was calling.

  “Yes, Ortiz?”

  “Miz Morgan, we got a delivery here. Boy, do we ever.” The fat old man was chuckling. “Flowers, from Mr. Levin.”

  She shivered. Why would he do this? Hadn’t she been clear? She wanted a clean break.

  “You can bring them up.”

  “No ma’am—I can’t. But the delivery men will.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He sent you flowers—like, a truckload.There has to be about a hundred arrangements. In pots—there’s even a flowering orange tree, smells pretty good down here, ma’am.”

  “Is the truck still there?”

  “Unloading now.”

  “No,” Jane said.The pain was as bright and sharp as a diamond now. “Ortiz, refuse delivery, okay? I don’t want them. Tell the men to take them back.”

  There was a pause, but he knew not to argue with her.

  “Yes ma’am. Any message?”

  She thought about it.

  “Yes.Tell him ‘All or nothing.’ ”

  She replaced the receiver again and fled into her rooftop garden. Somewhere with no phone, high enough that nobody overlooked her, where she could lie on a recliner, by her Japanese fountain, look at the sky, and have a little peace.

  My heart can’t take this, Jane thought. I know they all think I’m made of stone. But it hurts to love him, it hurts so deeply.

  She decided she would check into a hotel, the Victrix on Central Park. Nice and anonymous—strictly no incoming calls—and stay there until the flight left on Monday.

  Craig would get the message. She loved him far too much to act like his personal hooker. And perhaps her rebellious heart would get the message, too. Maybe in its own way grief could help her move on.

  Craig Levin sat in front of his desk and tried to concentrate. Behind him, a sheer wall of glass looked out over Wall Street. It was an office for a master of the universe. His playground, too. He’d had it modeled on Gordon Gekko’s pad in the movie; a cautionary tale, but Levin used it as a motivational tool.

  Last night he’d dated a model. Very smart girl, Israeli, dark and doe-eyed, a premed student before she quit for the catwalk. Just a date; just dinner. Even though she was obviously willing, and her body had been rounder and lusher than Jane’s ever was, he’d stopped at dinner; feeling sick, feeling like he was cheating on Jane.

  Ridiculous.They’d broken up.

  He spent a poor night thinking of his ex. Angry with her. Make that furious.Why had she taken the hottest thing in his life, the best thing, and messed with it? Stupid, conventional notions of love. He did love her—passionately. What the hell difference did a ring make?

  Lots of folks had told Levin it was their way or the highway. He’d never failed to take the highway, and it had worked out well enough.

  Not this time.

  He knew her, though. It was better because she always fought it. She was so damn hot, an ongoing challenge.

  He knew every inch of her. Knew just how she was pining for him.

  What was he thinking? He had gotten Jane in the first place with a planned campaign, patient months of waiting, letting her longing do the work. Now all he had to do was get her back. He had lifted the phone and called the all-night florist, delivery first thing in the morning.

  Just now, his chief assistant had called with the news. And Jane’s message.

  It was so—so strong. So classy. She was everything the model hadn’t been. She fascinated him. Levin felt himself start to weaken, to surrender. For once in their relationship, he thought, she was going to triumph.

  He called her building.

  “She’s gone, Mr. Levin,” the doorman told him, with, Craig thought, a touch of pride. “She said to tell you to please stop chasing her. She won’t be back until after her meeting, and she doesn’t want you to call even then.”

  “Thanks for telling me, Ortiz.”

  He hung up as his assistant buzzed him.

  “Craig, your nine a.m. from Bank of America’s in the outer lobby and the nine twenty from KKR are waiting in reception …”

  “Emma—apologize to them, cancel all my appointments.”

  “All of them?” she protested.

  “All of them. For the week.”

  “Are you feeling okay, Craig?”

  “No. I’m sick. And I’m going home. Tell Peter to deal with everything.” His deputy in the firm. “And don’t call me.”

  “You got it,” she said. The light disappeared. Secretaries who argued the toss with him didn’t get to keep their jobs very long.

  He called one of his personal PAs, back at the house.

  “Claudette, send the limo to the office.We’re going to JFK. I want to be on the first flight to L.A. Call the people at the Hollywood house and get it ready.”

  He had no idea what he was going to say to Jane, but he was going to see her. And she couldn’t hide forever. She’d be in L.A. Monday morning, going to that meeting at GLAMOUR. And Craig Levin was going to be waiting.

  By Thursday, the story had broken.

  And boy, had it broken.

  In a suite at the Victrix, in the vast master bedroom in Bel Air, in the palace of the crown prince in Ghada City, the three young women opened their papers, logged on to their computers; nobody liked what they saw.

  It was ugly; a bloodbath.

  The dry, dull pages of the business press had something juicy, for once. A scandal involving pretty girls, billions of dollars, athletes, financiers, and kings.

  The Wall Street Journal said it all: the single-word headline was “Catfight.”

  Haya—in both robes and coronet, and a T-shirt and jeans, figured prominently. The Yank princess. Another Anita Roddick, oror an obsessive putting her cash before her country?

  Jane—a workaholic boss from hell. Laid off thousands of Shop Smart workers. Loner, antisocial, not a feminine bone in her body. Why should shareholders trust her? A fluky career, too young, no track record …

  Sally—business Barbie or brainless bimbo? The dull gray suits in the business press had been waiting to tear her down. Daughter of the disgraced Paulie Lassiter. Athlete’s wife. Good to design clothes and get her picture taken—hardly the stuff of corporate governance.

  Put together, the news hacks reluctantly concluded, these women had something. But it couldn’t last. After a burst of explosive growth and more cash than most male CEOs made in a lifetime, they were already at each other’s throats.When GLAMOUR went public, it was a great opportunity for some true retailers to come swooping in.

  On Monday, the shares would be out there for the grabbing. It was time, the consensus said, for the market to clean up the mess.

  There was a little speculation as to which shark could mop up most of Jane Morgan’s shares the first. Surely she’d be most easily elbowed aside. Her expertise could be replicated….

  But what about the princess? Ethical business? What was the point of that? On the other hand, Haya had made, to say the least, a very good marriage. As crown prince, Jaber had sixteen palaces! What if he used his pe
rsonal fortune to hoover up the shares before U.S. brokers could get to him? Nobody could compete with that kind of firepower… .

  And Sally? Well, that was different. America just loved her. She was the homecoming queen, all grown up and sitting pretty at the boardroom table. Wife of the champ. Brand gold. The male writers agreed she’d have to be placated. The new corporate owners should pay her a very handsome premium, give her some placatory title, a nonexec directorship, anything to keep her there….

  Whatever; it would be interesting. The shares were to go on sale right after the meeting; ten a.m., Pacific time. Of course, they’d all be rich: but one, or all, of these women would find her dream had been ruined.

  “The embassy is on the phone,Your Royal Highness.”

  Jaber frowned. He did not need to ask which embassy. This was the third call this morning.

  His Excellency began with the usual formalities, then got right down to business.

  “The princess cannot come, sir.”

  “Haven’t we had this conversation, Ambassador Rashman?”

  “Yes, but Your Royal Highness has not seen the press …”

  “Indeed I have,” he said heavily. He did not want Haya there, either.The king was sinking.The whole thing was disastrous.

  “I mean the physical press. It’s only Saturday, and they are already gathering near the store. It might as well be the Oscars. They are staking out positions.You must forbid this scandal, sir, you must—”

  Jaber cut him off. He did not like Haya’s plans, but she was her own woman. And he would not be dictated to by anybody.

  “Must is an interesting word to use to your crown prince … Excellency.”

  A long pause. “Sir, forgive me—your wife—”

  “Her Royal Highness has decided to make the trip.That’s all there is to it.You may send along a special adviser to accompany her.”

  “But—”

  “I strongly advise you not to cross my will, Rashman. If I find the princess has been interfered with, you will be replaced within twenty-four hours.While His Majesty is sick, I am regent. Not to put too fine a point on it,” Jaber smiled, thinly, “my word is law. Do I make myself clear?”

  He heard the official swallowing. “The princess’s wish stands. Yes,Your Royal Highness. Please do forgive my—”

  “Good-bye, Excellency,” Jaber said firmly. He hung up.

  Haya was standing there, in the archway to his private apartments.

  “Excuse me—I heard most of that.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said heavily. “The king is sinking, Haya.”

  “When I go, I will go as a princess,” she promised him. “No informality; I will wear the circlet.They will see a modern woman of Ghada who bears herself with dignity.”

  “Hurry back,” he said. Uncomfortable, still. How much dignity could she have with those dogs of photographers ready to tear her to shreds?

  Jane wanted to be sick. Her hands physically shook, when she read those papers. They were saying Sally was right. That anybody could manage the finances.That once they went public, she would shortly be replaced.

  She had to perform at that meeting. She had to give the performance of her life. The only way to survive was to get her hands on one of the other girls’ shares.

  She wondered how Craig Levin, financial genius, would have handled this, and then hated herself for her need, for her ache for him.

  No, damn it, no! No Cinderella fantasies.There was no white knight ready to ride and save her this time. Craig had been there at the start. At the end, it was going to be up to her.

  Sally stepped out of the shower and reached for a toweling robe. She had these brought in direct from GLAMOUR, and they were the softest, fluffiest things this side of the Regent Beverly Wilshire Hotel. Perfect, in fact, for moments like this, when she barely had the energy to towel herself off.

  Chris was out at the ball park, playing catch with a bunch of disabled kids. She was so proud of him; the only work he did these days was for charity.

  She hadn’t complained to Chris. In fact, she’d ordered the maid to sweep away the papers and keep the TVs permanently tuned to ESPN. This fight was her deal, no need to involve her husband. Pay her off? Bribe her with a salary? Those male writers thought she was the bimbo, but they’d somehow failed to see that she had more money than God. And when GLAMOUR went public, forget it, she’d be able to buy her own country… .

  She didn’t want money. Didn’t they get that? It was all about control, about self-esteem.

  Right now, she was gonna take care of herself. Go sit on the terrace and watch the sun set over her lawn; that big lawn where the tents had been pitched for her party, all those years ago; Jane Morgan’s social debut.

  Sally found herself sighing, with nostalgia, and bitter regret. She thought of the long, spiraling staircase the three of them had walked down together, beautiful, beyond beautiful, sixteen years old and with the world at their feet….

  At Sally’s feet, anyway; she had spread the blanket of her popularity across them for protection; that dazzling night, it had worked.

  Maybe those things didn’t count for much now. Maybe it was time to grow up, to put the past behind her.

  Jane and Haya evidently had.

  She was walking out the door when something caught her eye. There, in the bathroom trash basket. The little stick she had tossed.

  No way.

  But yes—there was something different about it,something half-covered with a tissue, that had caught her peripheral vision …

  Sally picked it up. She’d been too fast to throw it out. She hadn’t waited the full three minutes.

  There was a second line. Faint, but distinct. She reached out one manicured hand and steadied herself against the wall of her walk-in marble wet room.

  She was pregnant.

  There had been no socializing. No small talk. None of the girls was up for it.They shook hands; their lawyers shook hands. Nobody curtsied to Haya; she had not been expecting it.

  “The meeting will come to order,” Jane said loudly.

  The lawyers shut up.When Jane Morgan spoke, people tended to listen.

  “We’re here to sign off on the exact terms of the IPO. I take it you all have the documents?”

  Haya raised her hand. “Madam Chairman, if I may?”

  Jane sat down immediately.

  “Of course, Your Royal Highness,” she said, with studied politeness.

  “The company has aggressively pursued ethical commerce. As you know, ethical trade in the Middle East, with a remit to expand into Europe and Asia, has been my focus as a director. What guarantees can you give me this will continue?”

  “I can’t. A public company can make no such arrangements.”

  “That’s unacceptable,” Haya said instantly.“We made commitments, and I intend to honor your word.”

  That stung.

  “May I say something?”

  “Mrs. Nelson has the floor,” Jane said crisply.

  “My lawyers have discovered that Lassiter makeup and Lassiter-designed clothes have accounted for twenty-five percent of total merchandise sales. Further to this, we estimate that at least a third of the goodwill value of the chain comes from my personal image.”

  “You’re hardly unbiased,” Jane said. “Haya would contest that.”

  “Princess Haya,” Haya snapped.

  Jane inclined her head. “Forgive me, ma’am. Princess Haya. I think you’ll find that my figures for the total real estate, staffing, distribution, funding, inventory management, analyst presentations, and general costs come to over fifty percent of the total value of this company.”

  There was a long silence. The three women around the table glared at each other.

  “Well, ladies.” Kent Green, the head of the firm of Sally’s lawyers, spoke up, a touch smugly. “Perhaps it’s time to let the professionals take over—otherwise this meeting could go on all day. And we do have a deadline.”

 
; “Just a second.” Sally spoke up. “I’d like y’all to give us the room, please. I want to speak to my partners alone.”

  “I don’t think that’s wise, Sally,” Kent said, paternalistically.

  “I can’t allow Her Royal Highness to be unrepresented in the room,” piped up Ahmed al-Jamir, the special adviser. Babysitter, as Haya thought of him.

  “I won’t let my client go to bat by herself.” Jane’s lawyer, Rachel Frohman, spoke clearly and authoritatively. “Sorry, Ms. Nelson, but we’re staying.”

  Jane was looking over at Sally; then she glanced at Haya.

  “No—you’re not. Give me the room, please, Rachel.”

  “But Ms. Morgan—”

  “Now, please.”

  “Mr. Al-Jamir, you, too.” Haya nodded at the diplomat, then backed it up in Arabic.

  There was a creak and a shift, and with great reluctance the small army of lawyers, assistants, advisers, and accountants left the room.

  As soon as the door shut Sally smiled.

  “Girls, what the hell are we doing?” she said.

  “What we have to,” Jane replied, with a heavy heart.

  “Bullshit, girlfriend. We’re doing what we think we have to. We’re cornered into this. Nobody wants to be here.” Sally looked at her two friends—determined they would stay that way. “Y’all want to know what happened to me today? I found out I was pregnant.”

  Haya beamed, shocked out of her reserve. “Sally!”

  “Really.” She shook her head, tears in her eyes. “You guys remember that day in the playground, the first day Haya turned up? Nobody wanted to talk to her. I figured we’d look out for her.Why? Because I was pretty and Jane was smart.We filled the gaps with each other. Don’t see why life has to get complicated. Don’t see why we still can’t do that.”

  “But GLAMOUR is everything we’ve worked for,” Jane said. “It’s everything I am.”

  “The hell it is. You were doing just fine before we started. And you’ll do great after this. I want the company. We all do. But I was an only child, you two were practically my sisters.” Sally passed one hand over her belly. “I’ve started Sally Lassiter Cosmetics. Jane’s got Morgana now. Haya, looks like that crown you’re wearing’s gonna get a bit bigger, no? This is just a store.”