Glamour (10 page)

“I’ll have Emma take some pics to show you,” Julie said in a mollifying tone. She held up a green silk dress with an obscenely plunging neckline. “What about
this
one? Should steal the show from Sally and crew, don’t you think?”

“Whatever.”

“Maybe.”

The other girls chewed on their resentment, torn between wanting Sally’s party to fail, and wanting Julie to get shown up.

“You better
hope
so,” Julie warned, reading their minds. “Because we’re
friends
—do you want that Ay-rab and the limey laughing at you on Monday morning?”

They all shook their heads. Hell, no. After all, Sally had the power. She was the one withholding the invites—all to prop up her little gang of three.

They didn’t like Julie much, but they
hated
that lot.

“Go for the white,” Maureen said, speaking for all of them. “It’s
way
sexy.”

She hoped Helen and Jane didn’t get so much as a second glance from all the boys! Let this party be a disaster. Then, at school, they’d show them who was boss!

Green Gables was on fire.

Helen ran excitedly to the window of Sally’s enormous bedroom. It had a walk-in closet that was bigger than Helen’s lounge, its own bathroom, complete with Jacuzzi and stand-alone power shower, a separate dressing room,
and
a private kitchenette!

Wow. Helen wondered what it’d be like to have this much money. Her dad was comfortable, rich middle class, but compared to Sally they were nothing but paupers.

She wanted this kind of success.

“Look at that!” Another rocket arched into the sky and exploded, a fiery rain of stars and whistling comets descending on an awestruck crowd.The air was full of oohs and aahs.“Come on, Sal! We
have
to go down!”

The party had been raging—and that was the word—for two hours already. Mona kept popping her head in to report this movie star or that supermodel had arrived.

“Yes—let’s go!” Jane was surprised at her own eagerness. Dressed in the gown Sally had picked out for her, carefully madeup by a pro and spritzed with a little rosewater, she looked astonishingly lovely, and she knew it.

“We want to make an
entrance
.” Sally smirked.“This is our
moment,
ladies.We’re not going to blow it.”

“Aww, please . . . ,” Helen said. She did not want to miss the fireworks!

“Five more minutes. Momma’s getting them all ready.” Sally was in her element, supremely confident. “You’ll see.”

“Damn,” Julie Manners seethed. She was gyrating on the dance floor, but it was having no effect. Rob Lowe had been here, but hadn’t even looked her way.

“That preppy kid from Beverly Hills High was checking you out,” Emma suggested helpfully.

“Screw him!” Julie pushed her bangs out of her eyes. Who cared? He was probably some dentist’s kid. . . .

She was frustrated. All the girls from school were watching her and Emma like hawks. It was a battle for supremacy. The party was supremely, awesomely great, so now all that remained was to see who was the most beautiful. Those three girls had been the talk of the school for too long. How dare they hang out just with themselves? They were freaks . . . but Sally Lassiter had been the protector. Julie did
not
want to see Helen and Jane Morgan making it by themselves.

She was possessed by the sudden, deep loathing of a bully who suspects she’s about to see her victims succeed.

The music suddenly stopped, leaving Julie in mid grind. Emma sniggered. Julie scowled at her.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the voice of the Lassiters’ real English butler came over the speakers.“Please welcome the birthday girl, Sally Lassiter, and her best friends, Miss Jane Morgan and Miss Helen Yanna!”

The glittering crowd, gathered around the dance floor, buzzed in anticipation. Everybody’s eyes were fixed on the top of the stairs.

Julie Manners had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

And there they were. At the top of the stairs.

“Oh—my—
gosh,
” said Emma. “Oh, my gosh!”

There was a collective gasp.

Sally stood in the middle. Long blonde hair, va-va-voom body, illegal curves, in her form-fitting gold-sequined gown with scalloped neckline, looking like a Greek goddess—Aphrodite, the queen of love.

Holding her left hand was Helen Yanna in her flowing robes, statuesque as a model, makeup emphasizing her natural beauty, a diamanté circlet in her hair, her Arabian features exquisitely calm and confident. Golden slippers glittered on her feet.

And holding her right hand, glasses vanished, hair light and gorgeous, high cheekbones glowing under radiant skin, was dark-eyed Jane—perhaps the loveliest of all—the ugly duckling turned swan, with all the extra firepower of good old-fashioned shock.

The crowd froze for a moment. Sick with jealousy, Julie glanced around. She saw the men’s eyes narrowing with interest and admiration, the girls from school staring as if starstruck.

Then the applause broke out—and the cheering.

The orchestra struck up “Happy Birthday to You,” and the three girls started to walk downstairs, holding hands.Three babes. Three best friends. Unbreakable. Perfect.

Flashbulbs popped as the official photographers captured the moment. Julie knew just how that picture would look—a glorious capture of youth and a level of beauty that neither she, nor any of her friends, would ever be able to match.

Just before the well-wishers—and boys—swarmed in on the glittering trio, Julie saw Sally Lassiter scope the crowd and find her.

The birthday girl gave her an insolent, triumphant wink.

I hate her, Julie thought. I’ve got to destroy her!

But what could she do?

Those three girls—they were untouchable!

She saw that hot new movie star, the one from the serial killer flick with all the Oscars, go up to Jane Morgan—and ask
her
to dance!

It was just horrible.

Julie turned to Emma. “I’m leaving,” she said.

But Emma was gone. She was pushing through the crowd, shouting to get some attention.“Helen! Hey, Helen!” Julie heard her calling. “That’s a great dress . . . who’s the designer?”

There were two new queen bees in town. Furious, Julie stalked off to the cloakroom.

“I want my bag!” she yelled. “Like, pronto!”

Time to split. Seething, she stewed in her failure. Damn it all to hell. Would anything ever go wrong for these bitches? Well, when it did, she, Julie Manners, would be right there waiting.

She had no idea just how soon it was going to be.

Thousands of miles away, as his daughter partied, British Ambassador Thomas Morgan was lurching up the carved oak staircase of his official residence.

The house on Massachusetts Avenue. He loved it. It had been the scene of so many of his triumphs. The intimate party for the Princess of Monaco. The state dinner for Vice President George H. W. Bush. The negotiations—tremendously secret, but bugged by both sides—between the UK and Russia over the Ukraine. . . .

And more.The scene of his personal rise . . . and he did mean rise.

The Hon.Thomas Morgan took a last, unsteady walk through his house. It was like taking a walk through a film . . . of his life, starring him. And hadn’t that been how it really was? He, the star? Emerging from the shadow of his oh-so-lucky big brother, James, the one with the title and the fabulous Elizabethan manor house. Second sons were awkward . . .James was the heir and he was the spare. In bygone ages they’d have shoved him into the Church. Right. He laughed wildly. Some priest
he’d
have made!

Ah, yes . . . the billiard room. He particularly loved it, because it had been the scene of so many great screws. Two of the sexy young nannies, right there on that table. A couple of desperate Washington housewives, longing to climb that social ladder. What a room! It was in there that he lived and breathed . . . there that he had his power.

Nobody more charming. Nobody more brilliant....

The grip of the drugs subsided in his mind, and for a second melancholia swept in. What the hell . . . what the hell did it all mean?

The unwelcome thought arose that maybe he hadn’t been
that
brilliant. Maybe he’d just been the best kiss-ass in town. A natural politician, one that could groom his lords and masters in London just as well as sucking up to the Yanks and assorted foreigners who comprised the social scene in America’s capital.

Maybe that wasn’t something to boast about. Fucking desperate women, poor immigrants without the right papers, nannies longing to keep their job and their shot at freedom . . . obsessed wives of other men, dumb enough to see the world through the same shallow blinkers he did.

Maybe he should have paid more attention to his daughter.

Maybe he shouldn’t have gambled.

Maybe he shouldn’t have taken those bribes....

Thom Morgan let out a loud, wretched sob. He felt piteously sorry for himself. He didn’t deserve this, any of this. He was a good person! They were all picking on him. . . .

The maudlin wash of regret peaked on another chemical dip and turned into anger. Morgan strode back into the bedroom, sat at his antique William and Mary dressing table, and snorted the next of the thick, fat lines he’d chopped out earlier this evening.

Wow! Instant rush.

The indictment, hand-delivered from his lawyers, lay ignored on the bed. Morgan was flying, riding a fresh wave of self-confidence and pride. He looked at himself in the mirror . . . a tall, handsome man in his mid forties, a dusting of powder just under his nose . . . that, he brushed off. Now. The white tie, Washington’s most formal style of attire, looked
fabulous
on His Excellency. As ever.

Swap it for prison blues and a mug shot? He thought not.

His Excellency, the Hon.Thomas Morgan, walked over to the Victorian sash windows of his boudoir, threw them open with one arm, and swung his legs over the edge. Fuck them, fuck them all! They’d never catch him.They were no match for him!

Jane’s image briefly floated back into his mind. But he didn’t want to think of her now. Wasn’t the moment. She was
his
daughter. She’d be okay, and besides, her mother was waiting—expecting him. . . .

He tossed himself over the edge, high as a kite. Falling, his arms spread out, as though he were flying, offering himself to the elements.

But he wasn’t flying. He was dying. In that long second before the death,Thomas Morgan knew it. His mind threw up a vision of Jane—all grown up—she was happy, he thought.

He blew her a kiss as the ground swallowed him up.

“So, how did it go?”

Ali helped his daughter into the car. He had to admit she looked marvelous—modestly gowned, but at the same time, splendidly beautiful. He was pleased—young Ahmed would be a most amenable bridegroom.

Aisha’s cousins and their son had arrived, exhausted, a couple of hours earlier and were sleeping soundly in the guest bedrooms. Ahmed was reserved, handsome, silent. Ali had not found him particularly enthusiastic, but he had not seen Helen yet. Ahmed would do his duty and, Ali was determined, so would his own child.

“It was
so
great.” Helen sighed with contentment. In all her young life, she had never had such an evening.

The spectacle of it—that was something else.The camel rides and free manicures, the fabulous food and sneaky drinks from the hidden beer keg—not that
she’d
indulged—the fortune-tellers and fireworks! Too much fun.

And then, herself. The girls had all adored her outfit, and she’d felt simply beautiful—not different, for once, just the center of attention. The solid friendship of Sally and Jane had buoyed her. And if young men had asked her to dance, asked for her number—well, she didn’t have to say yes—that was nice, too.

“Excellent. I trusted you,” he reminded her.

“I know, Baba.” Helen gave him a reassuring hug. “It was all fine.”

“Tomorrow morning you will meet Ahmed. . . .”

She sighed, but a bargain was a bargain. “I’ll be nice to him, I promise you that.”

“If you won’t sign the nikkah with him, Helen, we must make it up to the family.”

Helen stiffened.“How can I do that? I told you I’m not ready to be married, Baba.”

“The Egyptians have their customs. We’ll hold a friendship ceremony, and you and Ahmed will sign the pledge of friendship between our branches of the family, as the younger generation. I did the same with my cousin twenty years ago,” Ali lied blithely.

He kept his eyes on the road, but allowed his gaze to slip toward Helen in the passenger seat. Yes . . . she had relaxed and slumped tiredly against the headrest.

“Sure, Baba,” she said. “That’s no problem. I like the traditional stuff.”

“Good girl.” Her father kissed his tired daughter gently on the forehead, and reminded himself that what he was doing was for her own good.

The sun was streaming through the window of her bedroom when Jane woke up. It was a glorious winter’s day in L.A., sunny but not too hot. The ocean was crashing against their private beach in Malibu, and as Jane tossed in bed, she smelled the welcoming aroma of Consuela’s bacon and tomatoes, sizzling in the pan.The rented house the embassy provided for the ambassador’s daughter was small, but lovely, on a high cliff overlooking the sea, with large windows, modern designer furniture, and of course her latest live-in nanny.

Consuela and Jane got on well enough, which was to say, neither bothered the other.

Jane pushed a hand through her tousled hair and smiled.

For the first time in a long time—maybe forever—she woke up happy.

Last night had been truly wonderful. She looked so good—shockingly good. She’d been asked to dance by no less than three film stars, one soap actor, and a rock star—and asked for her number by countless hot-looking boys. And the girls had fluttered about her, offering compliments, gazing wonderingly at her hair—wow—it felt fantastic!