Glamour (11 page)

The tribute paid to beauty. Mothlike Jane had never known it. She was overwhelmed with gratitude to Sally. She’d never look down on that again. Call it superficial all you want—as bookworm supreme, Jane certainly had—but being pretty made
all
the difference. She felt confident, feminine—like the missing puzzle piece had been added to her life. Maybe she’d never have Sally’s brazen, starry glow, but Jane Morgan felt good about herself.

She swung her slim legs out of bed and padded over to the mirror. Jane slept in a pair of her dad’s boxers and one of his T-shirts, which swamped her small frame. But even without makeup, the beauty was still there; the great hair, ruffled by sleep; her pretty face, without the glasses; a little mascara on her lashes that hadn’t come off with the cursory wipe she’d given her face last night.

Jane Morgan was sixteen, carefree, and single.

It was to be the last day of her life she would ever feel that way.

She wandered into the shower and was washing her hair, reveling in the sensation of the powerful jets, when Consuela hammered on the door.

“Mees Morgan—phone—for you.”

“Take a message,” Jane yelled. “I’ll call them back.”

“They say ees important. Ees Washington.”

“I’ll get dressed, call them right back,” Jane snapped. Damn! Couldn’t she at least put her clothes on?

Still, it wasn’t like Daddy to call her and insist on talking. Reluctantly, she hurried through her routine, pummeled out the conditioner, and stepped out of the shower. Jane dried off fast and selected black jeans and a matching T-shirt, then went to find Consuela.

Her nanny put a plate of food in front of her. “Here.”

“Gracias.”
Jane minded her manners. “That number?”

Consuela passed her a scrap of paper and Jane dialed.

“British Embassy.”

“This is Jane Morgan,” she said, confidently. “I believe my father called me?”

There was a long pause at the end of the line.

“Hold please, Miss Morgan.”

A couple of beeps, and Jane found herself talking to Cyril—Sir Cyril Clark, her father’s senior attaché.

“Jane?” he said.

She knew instantly, from his tone. Something was wrong—very wrong. Automatically, Jane pushed the plate of bacon and tomatoes away, untouched.

“Cyril, it’s me.” She could hear the anxiety in her own voice. “What is it? Let me speak to my father, please.”

Another leaden pause.

“Now listen, Jane,” he said heavily, and her stomach curled into a knot. “You’re going to have to be very brave.”

“And this is my daughter Helen.”

Baba was speaking in Arabic; Helen’s was rusty; she was ashamed of that. Tired after not enough sleep, she had worn a long dress—to please her parents—instead of her normal jeans and a button-down shirt from the Gap.

“Wa-es salaam,”
she said politely.

He nodded back and said something too fast for Helen to understand. Ahmed was a young man of reasonable height, with glasses and a pleasant-enough, unremarkable face. He looked about as enthusiastic over the whole exercise as she was. Helen smiled at him—he, too, probably had his parents to placate.They’d get through this together.

“Ahmed’s parents are also visiting town.They’ll be at the ceremony this afternoon. They are still resting after the flight from Cairo.”

“What ceremony is that?” Helen asked.

“The friendship ceremony.” Ali spoke in English, and Ahmed looked on uncomprehendingly. “The one we spoke of last night. You will go through it, yes, Helen?”

“ ’Course I will.” She nodded. Fair’s fair—they’d let her go to the party, the greatest night of her life. At the very least, she could appear willing.“It will be good to meet your mother and father,” she added to Ahmed, haltingly, in Arabic.

“Thank you.” He added, “I am very happy.”

He didn’t look it.

“And I have a surprise for you,”Ali added.“Tonight we are all going on a trip—to Cairo, where your mother can visit all her cousins. Afterward we’ll go back to Amman.” He looked at his daughter.

“Tonight? But it’s so soon!”

“You can just pack one case.Your mother and I decided that we should all go on a family holiday, and with Rashid and Firyal here it seemed like the perfect time. After your big Western party.” He smiled at her. “It was our surprise for you, Helen. We didn’t want you to get
too
sucked into your friends and their lifestyle. You do want to go back for a visit, right?”

“Of course!” Helen said. Back to Jordan? She hadn’t seen her childhood home for years. She thought of all her friends, Fatima, Sayeeda, little Rahma . . . wondered how they’d grown up.“We’re really flying out there?
Tonight?
You mean it?”

“I do.” He grinned. “I know you always wanted to go back there.” And Baba put on his solemn face. “Maybe once you remind yourself what our life was like in Jordan, you will wish to get married. . . .”

Helen shook her head.“I want to go back to Jordan, Baba, but that’s about all.”

Ali reached up to the mantelpiece and patted the envelope that sat there.“I have the tickets and the passports,” he said.“First class.You know, Helen, one thing that matters in this life is staying close to your roots.”

“I totally agree,” she said. Did that mean he was going to give up the whisky?

But she didn’t say that. It was a nice moment—no need to spoil it.

“Will you excuse me?” she asked Ahmed.“I want to go and see my friend Sally. I’ll be back this afternoon, for the ceremony.”

“No later than noon—your mother has a special dress for you to wear,” Ali told her.

Helen kissed him on the cheek. “I promise.”

The cab dropped her out front. Green Gables was already immaculately clean—Helen could hardly believe it. An army of servants had descended on the place in the night—even after a few hours, you’d never know there had been a party there at all—apart from a few hoofprints on the grass where they’d had the camel rides. And Helen suspected they would soon be gone, too.

Wow. It was astounding what money could do.

She rang the bell, eager to see Sally. Maybe they could get a ride in one of Sally’s father’s cars over to Malibu, see Jane. She had a teenager’s eagerness to relive her night of triumph. And just wait till they were back at Miss Milton’s on Monday morning! The gang of three would become a gang of
twenty
-three—at least.

Helen finally felt like she fit in.

A moment later and the door swung open—Richard, the second butler, opened it.

“Good morning, Miss Yanna.” All the staff here knew Helen by name. “Please come in—Miss Lassiter is in her bedroom.”

“Thanks, Richard.” Helen half ran up the stairs, feeling as light as thistledown. She knew the way, third on the left at the top of the sweeping marble stairs. She hammered on the door.“Sally! You sleeping? It’s Helen. Let me in!”

“Just a moment.”

Helen blinked; she could hear that Sally was crying.

Why? Last night had been perfect. Some drama with a boy after Helen had left?

“What’s up?”

Sally opened the door, red-eyed, tear tracks streaked down her face, and all Helen’s thoughts of reliving the party, flying off to Cairo, all evaporated.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Sal? Are you okay?”

“It’s Jane.There’s been . . . an accident.”

Helen’s stomach turned over. “What kind of an accident . . . is she
dead
?”

“Not her. Her father. He fell out of a top-floor window in his house in Washington. . . .”

“Oh, my God.”

“The British secret service came . . . took her away. Took her to Washington. She called me before she left.”

Sally shuddered as she spoke. She would never forget the bleakness, the desolation in Jane’s voice.

“Does she have family there?” Helen, always practical, tried to process the information. “Maybe an uncle . . . a grandmother?”

“Nobody. Her father never got along with them.”

“Then who’s going to look after Jane?”

Helen wandered in and both girls flopped down onto Sally’s huge California king bed with its silken Pratesi sheets.

“I guess I am,” Sally said, finally. “She’s my best friend. I told her she can come live here, like in one of the guest cottages.We can afford it. . . .”

“Her family will take care of the money, I’m sure. Won’t she inherit . . .”

“No, that’s the thing.” Sally Lassiter wasn’t book-smart, but she had some of her father’s savvy.“It was all government stuff . . . dependent on her dad’s job. Now that’s gone, so’s everything else. She has no house . . . nothing.”

“But her maid. Her driver . . .”

“Helen, her dad didn’t really fall. It was suicide.” Sally dabbed at her red eyes. “He was embezzling . . . taking bribes. They said he passed info to the Chinese . . . who the ambassadors were meeting and when. Even what they said. He had a gambling habit.The Brits had him under surveillance . . . they told him last week they were going to let the U.S. try him. He’d have gone away for life. Maybe more.”

“More?”

“Treason. Spying carries the death penalty over here.”

“Oh, God!” Helen cried out. “Poor Jane . . .”

“Everything he
did
own will be forfeit to the Brits.”

“But they’ll have to look after her. She’s still a legal child.”

“I guess.” Sally mulled that over. “She didn’t sound like she wanted anything to do with them.”

Helen bit her lip. “We’ll have to stay with her at school—all day.”

Even with the party and Jane’s newfound beauty, Julie and the other bullies would see their chance now. No way could Helen let them snigger over her father’s death.

“She’s not coming back to Miss Milton’s.” Sally rubbed her eyes; the thought of losing Jane, whom she felt like she’d known forever, the closest thing to a sister, was dreadful. “She says she never wants to see that school again. And you know what? I think she means it.”

“Well, whatever she decides, we’ll be here.” Helen knew it sounded lame.“Maybe I could get a transfer to her new school . . . wherever the Brits decide to send her.”

“Maybe.” Sally was anxious. She didn’t think Jane Morgan would want to go to any new school. “They might try to send her home. . . .”

“This is her home,” Helen said stoutly. “L.A.” She looked at Sally, anxious. “My father . . . he booked a surprise vacation for the family. First-class tickets, to Cairo.” She blushed at even mentioning cost to Sally Lassiter. “For us that’s a lot of money. We are . . . going to visit some relatives and then going back to Jordan. I could ask Baba to cancel but I don’t think he’d go for it.” She shivered. “Will Jane be okay?”

“Absolutely. She’ll be in Washington for a little while anyway. We’ll come by when y’all get back.” Sally was stout. “I can take care of Jane, don’t you worry.” She hugged her friend.“When are you coming home?”

“Not sure. About a week, I guess.”

“Okay.Y’all hurry back, you hear?”

Sally smiled, but they were both on the verge of tears. There was no joy in vacations now, no joy in rehashing a fabulous party. Their dear Jane was hurting, and both the girls felt the wound with her.

On the way back home, Helen thought of nothing but her friend. She was worried—extremely. What if Jane went off the rails? There was a strange streak to that girl. What if she wanted revenge . . . on the embassy . . . was that so crazy? Surely she wouldn’t think of killing herself. No. That was not Jane’s way. But Helen couldn’t blame her for not wanting to deal with the shame. School would be appalling. Who could handle Julie and her crowd’s torments at a time like this?

As the cab sped under the palm trees, waving gently in a perfect L.A. sky, baby blue with a couple of fluffy clouds, Helen was ashamed for worrying about herself, too.

Jane had been the glue between herself and Sally. The older friend, but clever, able to bridge the gap between them. She could discuss politics with Jane, or history, or anything.With Sally it was all movie star gossip and the latest trends. And rock bands . . .

Helen loved all those things, of course. But Sally and she were just so
different
. She was frightened now. Maybe with just the two of them it wouldn’t work out.

Sally and Jane had history. Not Sally and her.

“Eighteen fifty.”

“Thanks.” Helen gave the cabbie twenty-five, absentmindedly.

“Thanks, hon. Have a great day,” he said before speeding off down Third Street with a screech of tires.

There were ribbons tied to her gate, and balloons. Oh, man. Baba was having a party for Ahmed. Helen made an instant decision: it was fine, she was going to go along with everything. Jane’s father was dead—the last thing Helen needed was more drama right now.

Aisha hurried out of the kitchen door.

“Come with me, upstairs. I have your betrothal dress.”

Helen allowed herself to be pushed upstairs. “What do you mean, betrothal?”

“No, for the ceremony, the friendship ceremony,” her mother said hurriedly. “Now here, put these robes on! Where have you been? They are all waiting.With the contract . . .”

Helen quickly got changed; her mother had got her a beautiful Jordanian robe, traditional and, she thought, antique. She admired her reflection as Aisha fastened a flowing headscarf of cream silk around her hair.

“Can I keep this? It’s beautiful.”

“Of course you can. Now run downstairs, Baba is waiting for you. Firyal and I will come down in a minute.”

“Mama—you know I’m not actually going to marry Ahmed.”

“Friendship will satisfy family honor, Helen. Just do this for your father,” Aisha said vaguely. “Hurry! His father, Rashid, is there waiting for you, too.”

Helen sighed and walked downstairs; her father was waiting with an ornate-looking document. Ahmed was there, looking as embarrassed as she was, in traditional Islamic trousers and hat; he didn’t meet her eyes as both their fathers embraced.

Baba put Helen’s hand into his. Feeling every sympathy for him, she gave him a surreptitious wink. Ahmed looked at her for the first time; his eyes widened, and he gave her a very small smile.