Glamour (29 page)

He snarled at her, cheeks mottled with rage, but he left.

She stood up and walked to the window. It was her favorite part of this job; below her, the office building sloped down and to the right, a curved arc of polished marble.The Manhattan skyscrapers jabbed into the hazy blue of the sky, smudged today with autumn clouds; the traffic crawled, in miniature, on the junctions at ground level, little yellow cabs crawling along like beetles, the sunlight flashing off the windscreens in diamond bursts of brilliance.

Her office. Vice president in charge of personnel. And she deserved it, damn it.

She tried to brush off what Michael Tiersky had said as the rantings of a failure. But it bothered her; it certainly did. She heard it far too often, in this job. From any man, and half the women, she canned.

“Sex toy.”

“Hooker.”

“Bimbo.”

Sometimes they threw out names.Who, exactly, was she sleeping with? Rhodri Evans? Carmine Gallo? Richie Benson?

That she might deserve it—be here on her merits—impossible. She was too young.Twenty years old.

And, Jane was starting to understand, too beautiful.

It aggravated her. Rhodri, her first and still best mentor, was
gay
—not that she would tell them that, or dignify the sleaze with a response. She’d proven herself out there in L.A. In six months, she had transformed that workforce, and with it, the whole store’s productivity.

At first Mrs. Watson had resented it—but as the cash flowed, so did her bonuses. Before long, she was recommending Jane wholeheartedly for promotion. Amazing what a little influx of cash could do.

And Jane was not the monster they made her out to be. Under her regime, merit was rewarded.Yeah, she cut out the deadwood—but more at management level than among the grunts. People soon came to understand that with Jane Morgan watching—and she was always watching—slacking was impossible.

But if you were a worker, Jane made life good. Even for the lowest levels. She ordered the cafeteria redecorated, new coffee machines installed, and the food improved. Sexual harassment was no longer tolerated. For the college kids, she offered daily internships in the management offices, so that the stint packing groceries would look better on their resumes. For the working moms, Jane brought in a crèche. For the families, she negotiated discounts at Universal Studios and the museums. There were reward schemes, employees of the month, bonuses, and a better staff area.

People had incentive. Jane had revolutionized the store.

They promoted her three times, and then the call. Come to New York. A vice-presidency of Shop Smart. Translate your methods across the country.

Jane had thought about it, but not for very long. She put her neat little house in Encino on the market, donated her stuff to charity, and moved into a smart two-bedroom flat on the Upper East Side. Her Ford had long ago become a Lincoln Town Car; in Manhattan, they offered her a driver.

Jane demurred. She’d take the subway. It was cheaper and quicker into Midtown.

Her bosses loved it, and they loved her. Before she knew where she was, Jane was getting her photograph taken in a studio and appearing in the Shop Smart corporate annual report. Along with a note on her tragic story.

She wanted to object, but didn’t. It was all an irrelevance. And if the company looked good for having a woman at a senior level, then fine.

But now—now she was getting sick of it.

Not for the obvious reasons.

Not because her brand of human resources focused more on the resource than the human. She did not tolerate deadwood. A manager’s salary was fifty grand a year, and if the university grads did not perform, she had a waiting list of hungry training-program workers, direct from the shop floor, ready to take their places.

She had zero time for lazy placeholders. No tears for Michael. Let him get another job. He wasn’t her problem.

No, Jane’s trouble was that she did this
too well
. Her success on Sunset Boulevard had blinded them. Shop Smart just wanted more of the same. And since her original aim had simply been money and position, she didn’t want to turn this down—the complete package was worth almost two hundred grand a year.

But she wasn’t a personnel drone.What interested her in Shop Smart was
selling
. It was the store itself. So she could run a team of workers—big wow.

Jane could do other, more important things. More crucial things. She wanted the chance to try.

But the board had other ideas. They told her they liked her where she was.Why mess with success?

Jane stared down at Manhattan, not seeing it. She sensed danger. This was a trap—a very comfortable trap, a middle-class trap, but a trap, all the same. Personnel had its limits. It was female-dominated, and like all female-dominated industries, underpaid. A safe place to stick your so-called high-fliers. Get a nominal woman “senior” executive, but not one in any danger of actually doing anything important.

Jane wanted to run supply lines, oversee buyers, construct new stores, award ad contracts. She had trained herself to be a
businesswoman,
not an overpaid nanny.

Five months in New York, and she was done.

She made up her mind. Go to Rhodri—he deserved the courtesy—and ask him for a transfer. Marketing would be a start. Buying, even better. She wanted to try her hand at stock and supply. And if he or the board refused, she would quit.

Shop Smart had a formula. A very successful formula, but not one that allowed much creativity.

Jane Morgan was nowhere near where she wanted to be in life.Yes, she was out of the gutter.Yes, she was comfortable. Probably more so than her dad had ever been.

But she wanted so much more. And she was not sure Shop Smart was going to give it to her.

“I’ll take it to them.” Evans sighed, and polished his glasses. “Really, Jane, you’re just twenty years old.”

“My age is irrelevant.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Well, it damn well should be.”

“And you’re gorgeous—so my straight friends instruct me.”

“Again, irrelevant.” Jane flashed on Michael Tiersky and his insults. Fancy girl. Slut.

“A gorgeous young girl in the boardroom would ruffle a lot of feathers.”

“You should know something,” she said. “In terms of boyfriends—” She blushed. “I haven’t had any.”

“None at all?”

“No.”

What chance had she had? Working twelve-, sometimes eighteen-hour days, doing whatever it took to stay on top of the job. Jane sometimes believed a cloistered nun stood a better chance of getting married than she did. “I understand,” Evans said. He had faced plenty of prejudice himself, and he sympathized with her; she was a brain, no doubt about that at all. And a young girl, in a hurry to be going places.

He liked Jane Morgan dearly. She was an amazing woman, and Evans admired her.

That said, he remained a Shop Smart employee; and she was most valuable where they’d placed her.

“In Personnel nobody will question you,” he suggested.

“Rhodri.” Jane spread her hands, and he was again half-amused, half-impressed. An interesting young woman, to be certain. “I am better than that. I came into this company wanting to learn the business, not wanting to be some glorified suit in charge of the parking rota at Shop Smart picnics. I know all about Shop Smart picnics. I invented them.”

“You are
so
young, Jane,” her friend tried again. “And you have no MBA. Not even a degree. Can’t you see people are jealous of you?”

“Of course I can, and I don’t see why I should give a damn.” Jane jumped to her feet, passionate.“Who produces, who doesn’t produce. That’s all that counts. The eighties are over. Haven’t we learned anything?”

“You’re so young, and already a vice president.”

Jane leaned across his desk.

“You know what I tell my juniors, Rhodri? Up or out. If they’re not promotion material within a certain time they are gone. Now tell me, why should the rules be different for me?You put me in as veep in charge of staff. Okay—I’ve delivered. The deadwood is gone.The motivation programs are there. . . .”

“So you should see it through.”

“Like hell.” She stood and ran a hand through her long hair, and he admired her, dispassionately. “I’m not into that. I want a real job, in business. Supply . . . management . . . marketing . . . there are lots of possibilities.”

Evans stood firm. “So you’re the no-bullshit girl?”

“Damn straight.”

“Then take some plain talking from me, Jane.You are a kid. And already you’ve been promoted five times higher than any kid would ever be. Whatever the numbers say, shareholders, and more importantly analysts, are going to bitch at seeing you promoted to board level.”

“Then explain why.”

“We did okay for many years before you got here,” he said calmly. “And we would do okay after you left.”

“But this is so dumb.” In frustration, she pushed a hand through her glossy hair. “You gave me a task, and I more than delivered—”

“And that’s what you’re trusted on.”

“But I could be so much more. Shop Smart—”

“Time for an object lesson,” Evans said.“This store is at a peak of performance and sales. No director is going to give a crap if you come or go.You have to settle in to being at-bat, girl. And I can’t help you if you won’t do that. At twenty years old, you can expect at least—at
minimum
—five years in this slot. And after that it’s a distant maybe as to whether they would transfer you. You’re good, and relatively cheap—”

“Don’t I know it,” Jane said, angrily.

“So why change? Especially since any further movement would threaten their jobs.”

She stood. “And if I quit?”

Evans rolled his eyes.“At twenty you’re on two hundred K. If you quit, you’re a moron. In
this
company you have a track record. Anyplace else, you’re just another college dropout—because they won’t be giving you a glowing reference.”

Jane snarled. “Damn it!”

“You’re an analyst.” He treated her with the same dispassion she treated everyone else with.“You figure it out.The fact you’re so beautiful makes a difference.”

“You have a boyfriend. I don’t,” she lashed out.

“Sweetie, if you want, I can fix that in five minutes.”

Jane grudgingly offered him a smile. “Thank you, no.”

He was a smart cookie, Rhodri Evans, and a good friend. Maybe what he was saying made sense. She just didn’t want to hear it.

“Seriously.” He stood up, and walked over to her. “I think I know just what you need, Jane.You’re frustrated, but maybe that’s not because of work.You need a relationship.”

“Yeah . . . sure,” she said.

Rhodri didn’t know why she dismissed the idea. Eighteen-hour days. Constant phone calls. Staring at the computer until you went blind. What was that? No kind of life for a young woman.

“You could date somebody who works on your schedule.” Evans thought about it, and ran through his single friends. The strong ones, at least; anyone else, this girl would eat alive.“There’s Peter Ralston, an investment banker. Murray Krasnich, he’s a politician—but dedicated. And Leroy Anderson, he’s a manager at senior level over at Wal-Mart—ahead of you, though.”

Jane shook her head. “When it happens, it happens.”

“Okay.Your call. I’m always there.”

For once she availed herself of the chauffeur service. Jane felt adrift, unsure as to what to do next. She wanted a new job—and a new man; somebody to silence the critics calling her a whore. She wanted the backing of her allies, but understood she was asking something outrageous. And yet the pure flame of capitalism told her she should already have the job.

On the slow drive up Fifth Avenue, stuck in traffic and wanting to get home, Jane thought about her life; about her past, and her friends. Where was Sally? What was she doing now? And Helen? Did she have children, was she enjoying herself in some Egyptian suburb? Did she ever even think of Jane and Sally?

But those were crazy reminiscences, Jane told herself. Friendships couldn’t last forever . . . why had she ever thought otherwise?

Maybe it was nostalgia. But she was determined to find out. The desire to avenge herself, to prove she was more than the pampered daughter of a worthless diplomat, had been slaked. She was exhausted, and one way or another, she was on the way up.

For the last two years she had been a hermit.

So deep in her work she might have been a nun.

All the more funny that they called her a whore—but Jane wasn’t laughing.

If she had friends again—that would be something.

It wasn’t like she hadn’t tried to find them. But the Yannas had remained tight-lipped, and there was no sign of Sally Lassiter anywhere in Texas. Jane came close, one time; she discovered Sally had been working at a beauty parlor in a small town in the Lone Star State. But then she’d upped sticks and left, and nobody had the first idea where she’d gone. Vanished in the night, her bank account closed, her landlord without a forwarding address.

I have to try again, Jane thought. Although she had no idea where she would start.

She tipped the driver, smiled briskly at her doorman, and rode the elevator to the twelfth floor. It had to be high—she’d stipulated that to her realtor. Manhattan, and her job, were full of stress. From way above ground, the city looked peaceful; in her office and at home, Jane Morgan wanted to be in the clouds.

Her apartment was laid out along the same lines. Cool shades of white, tone on tone, punctuated with the occasional soft cushion in soft beige or gray, like driftwood and bones on a beach: oyster, pearl, and cream. Jane had opted for calming neutrals. Getting away from her father’s leather-bound books and statues, she was sinking into Manhattan style: sparse, Zen-like, a buffer between her and the world.

It was immaculate, too. No longer did she have to scrub out her tub with bleach or starve out the roaches. Her maid, Janet, came three times a week; the building’s concierge delivered her daily groceries and fresh flowers—lilies, white tulips, and snowy roses, the petals bright against dark green leaves.