Glamour (36 page)

Reardon chuckled. “You’ve got guts, young lady. I’ll take that deal. But beware—we don’t puff, either, I leave that to
Vanity Fair
. If your clothes suck, my journalist is gonna say so.”

“Fine with me.” Sally was elated. “Let’s do it.”

“When?”

“Now.” She gave him the address.“I’ll be at the store in twenty minutes.”

Sally made them take the photos first. She knew after she’d been speaking to the journalist her eyes would be red. Better get the shots out of the way while she could. She posed, sexy but demure, in her little blue skirt and a white cutoff T-shirt that showed her tan, long blonde hair flowing loose around her waist, nails with a simple French polish, her blue eyes laughing.

The photographer, a woman, sighed with pleasure.“You look amazing, girlfriend.”

The interviewer, wearing the skinny black jeans and white buttoned shirt of a fashion maven, was bespectacled and serious. Sally poured her heart out: she sobbed, she railed at Miss Milton’s lack of support, she castigated her mother’s friends. Explosive stuff; she needed it to be.

This had to make the paper.

“I’m filing it this afternoon.” The journalist clicked the off button on her tape recorder, clearly impressed.“And, Sally, I think your T-shirts are hot.
So
sexy. Plus, I adore those beads.”

“Here.” Sally jumped to her feet, collected a handful, and strung her a necklace. “It says ‘Annalise.’ ” Her name. “That’s yours—if you like it, maybe you’ll wear it, tell your friends.”

“Maybe.” She smiled. “This piece runs on Sunday—if I were you I’d stay open that day.”

The next morning was Thursday. Sally came to work to find her store already full; Koko, her Algerian counter girl, had opened early.

“There was a crowd outside.”

The journalist had brought her friends.

As the chic young women, whom Sally pegged as grad students, lawyers, bankers’ wives—nonindustry, civilian Angelenas—shopped, running through her stock like locusts, Sally reflected you could be big in this town if you were hip and you were first. The rich girls wanted a jump on the hoi polloi who’d come here Sunday, when the
Citizen
ran the piece.

At the end of the day she was already showing a month’s profit. She gave the girls a tiny bonus: fifty bucks apiece, all she could afford.

“There’ll be more later.”

They laughed and hugged her, eyes bright with tears. Sally got the feeling her workers didn’t often see fifty dollars all at once.

It gave her a thrill. Finally, her own money. Her own style. Her own success.

On Sunday, the piece came out. She didn’t read it; no desire to relive that harrowing shit all over again. She just looked at the pictures: herself, golden, laughing, twenty and supremely beautiful, with her kicky little skirt and innate confidence.

Annalise, the journalist, had pegged it. Sally’s shop was swarming with visitors.They sold almost every T-shirt, and the jewelry was gone in three hours.

After that, she started taking orders. Payment up front, delivery in two weeks; wait list only.

Sally Lassiter was still small-time. She didn’t kid herself. But she was also a success.

Helen stood up, gingerly. She was only five months along, but her feet were still swelling. She walked into her garden, her embroidered slippers flip-flopping carefully.

Her stomach was churning—and it wasn’t her baby.That was Sally, her Sally, in the papers. Haya had discovered at long last what had happened to her friends; and she hadn’t been there for them; she had been half a world away, sweating out her pleasure in the grip of Ahmed’s arms.

They must have felt it as a betrayal. And in a way, she knew, it was. She hadn’t tried to find them, even when she got back to America. She had been so lost in her husband, in what he was doing—and after he died, just lost.

And now—here was Sally. And Sally looked so beautiful! Tragedy had burned some determination into her face, made her all-American good looks that little bit deeper.

The clothes looked good on her body.There was fit, elegance, a bit of sassiness that squeezed at Haya’s heart—all Sally, big-hearted, optimistic, golden Sally. And she hadn’t given up, she was just clawing her way back in.The
Citizen
gave her designs a rave review.The girl was doing well.

Haya’s heart beat a little faster, with pure nerves. But she steeled herself. She would go to see Sally. If her old friend was furious, damned her to hell for not being there, Haya would understand. How must it look . . . like Haya had dumped her as soon as she lost her money.

But there were few people, now, Haya liked in this world. Of course she still loved Baba and Mama; but right now, she didn’t
like
them very much. And maybe there were others she could have forged a relationship with, but she’d kept her distance. Hadn’t wanted to tell anybody yet that she was pregnant.

Sally Lassiter was different. Haya picked up the paper again, and committed the address to her memory. Melrose—right.

“Thank you so much.”

“Really—it’s fabulous. And I’ll take twenty in each color. Just mail them to my billing address.”

“I will ma’am, thank you.” Sally gave her the patented smile.

“Your stuff is just terrific,” the fat lady said, and sailed magnificently out of the room, like a galleon under full sail.

Sally sighed with relief. That was it; the society wife was the last customer. Not that she minded sales, but her heels, dizzy five-inch Manolos, were
killing
her.

With the first little bit of money, Sally had bought herself a killer wardrobe.

That was even more important than a new house, because it was business. They’d all read the
Citizen
article. Half of her customers were rubberneckers—there to see
her
.The golden girl down at the heels. Paulie Lassiter’s daughter, starting over.

Fuck it. Sally played the cards she was dealt. If they came to see her, then
she
was the product. Everything she sold reflected her. And that meant being one hundred percent glamorous, at all times.

She added platinum highlights to her butterscotch hair. She deepened her tan with lotions. She wore Manolos on her feet—nothing else. Only her own line of jewelry—her necklace read, SuRvIvOR—and her own designer clothes. Sally got her teeth whitened, and wore perfume at all times, even to bed. Glamour, she told herself, was a state of mind.

Beauty and style were like athleticism.They required practice and endless conditioning. If there was one thing Sally Lassiter knew, it was how to be a star.

And the customers drooled over it.

She nodded to Koko to lock up and gratefully slid her stockinged feet out of her narrow-toed shoes.

There was a knock on the door.

“Are you open?”

“Sorry, miss. No.Tomorrow, nine a.m.,” Koko said.

“I wanted to see Sally Lassiter.”

At the sound of that voice, Sally froze. “Wait—Koko, wait. Helen? Is that you?”

“Yes. . . .”

“My God! Koko, let her in!”

Haya walked in. She was lovely: she wore a long dress, a little shapeless, with gold embroidery stitched across the azure blue cloth; her hair was curled softly just to her shoulders; and her skin was luminous.

“Sally!” she said. She gasped with joy. “Sally! It’s you,
mash’Allah,
it’s really you! I—I can’t believe it!”

Sally squealed, like the girl she once was, then put one manicured hand on the countertop and jumped over it, flinging herself into Haya’s arms.

“Helen! You’re here, you’re actually here!”

She hugged her friend so hard she almost crushed her—Sally never wanted to let Helen go. She might disappear again, might get away to where Sally couldn’t find her.

“What
happened
to you?” she demanded, when she finally pulled back “Where did you go? Do you know how long I’ve been searching . . .”

“Me, too, me, too.” Haya was so excited, she felt the years peeling away from her, like she was fifteen again, a carefree teenager piling into the back of Sally’s limo. “It’s a long story. Wow, you look so amazing, Sal.”

“Look who’s talking.” Sally held her at arm’s length, running a practiced eye up and down Haya’s long dress. “Fantastic outfit. And you’ve blossomed, that’s for sure. You don’t seem shy anymore.”

Haya grinned. “It’s been a few years since anyone called me shy.” She clutched at Sally suddenly.“Jane—are you in touch with Jane?”

A cloud passed over Sally’s beaming face, and she shook her head.

“She’s gone. I can’t find her.The Brits were no good. An actress is living at her place in Malibu now.”

“Well.” Haya didn’t bother to hide her disappointment. “Two out of three ain’t bad, like they say over here.”

“We’ll find her.” Sally was instantly optimistic, just like she’d always been. “We’ll find her, Helen. Now I’ve got you, that’s all the motivation I need. We’ll put our heads together and we
will
track her down.”

Haya sighed with happiness, a simple, innocent happiness she hadn’t felt since the night of Sally’s party.

“I’ve got so much to tell you, I hardly know where to start.”

“Oh, God. Me, too.”

“Is there somewhere we can go sit down?”

“Wait a moment. Koko, can you shut up the store and bank the cash for me? I’d like to take my friend to dinner.”

“Sure thing.”

“Come out the back.” She wanted Helen all to herself.

“Nice to meet you,” Haya called politely to Koko as she followed Sally out.

“Can you eat dinner?” Sally found herself nervous, hurried. “There’s a pretty great Thai place around the corner.”

“Sounds great.Thanks.”

Sally ushered her out of the back door. The sun was sinking over the hills, the smog settling into a spectacular light show. She felt like she was on a first date. Helen—so stately now; a million miles from the diffident schoolgirl she’d been on the night of their party. Back when Sally used to protect her.

“Table for two.”

“Yes, Miss Sally. I seen you in the papers,” the hostess gushed. “Everybody said you looked great.Where you want to sit?”

“In the back—somewhere quiet.”

“You got it.” She ushered them through the packed, noisy restaurant to a dark corner booth, lit dimly by a red lamp. It was a kind light, but Sally could see Helen was beautiful—and that she had a ring on her left hand.

“So.Tell me all about you.You disappeared so fast . . .”

Haya shook her head.“I know I didn’t call—I was sorting some things out. I just assumed you’d both be there when I got back.”

“Well, I’m here now. And we’ll both start the hunt for Jane again.”

“Definitely. And Sally—I changed my name. Not just from marriage.” Haya sighed. “It’s Haya—Haya is my birth name, and my husband preferred it to the American version, so Haya, if you don’t mind. . . .”

“Not at all. It’s beautiful.”

“I don’t know where to begin,” Haya said honestly. “Well—basic facts—I’m pregnant, and I’m widowed. . . .”

“Oh, Hel—Haya.” Sally pressed her hand.

“I was in Egypt.” Haya blinked back tears and told her friend the story, as fast as she could. It poured out; it was good, so good, to talk to somebody at last who would understand her. “And you,” she said, at the end, as Sally was dabbing away tears. “I had no idea what happened—when we came back here you were gone.”

Sally filled her in; it didn’t take long; she glossed over her mother, and left out the rape. Not even to Haya, not even to one of her closest friends, could she confess the full truth.

Momma’s drinking problem had gone; these days, her secret fear was prescription drugs.What was causing her mother to slob around in the apartment like a bag lady? She shuffled around, a nightmarish shell of her former self.

No; there was enough loss and sorrow with her father, and the poverty, and the sneering, prying media. That explained to Haya how hard it was for Sally to keep her head above the torrent.

“Anyway.” She wiped away more tears; it was dark here, after all, and it felt good to let the tears flow, let the emotion out. Sally trusted Haya, in the end. And that was what mattered. “It seems to have paid off. They’re here . . . and they’re buying. They want a little glamour in their lives.”

“I can understand it.”

“And the baby? What about that?”

“At least he left me something,” Haya said, blankly. “It’s what I live for.”

Jane glanced around the bungalow. It was warm, and different from her last place. A view over the ocean at Malibu, if only in the distance. Driftwood and seaweed motifs throughout the house; clean modern lines, all in sands, grays, greens, and whites; a decent little pool in the back.

“Good. I’ll take it.”

The realtor beamed, and she told him to hold on; her bank would wire the money. It was a savvy purchase, the neighborhood hip but not too expensive, the house tucked away up a sand bank far from the water’s edge yet near the coast road.“How much for the furniture?”

“That’s not included.”

“Give me the number for the sellers,” Jane said.“If you negotiate right, everything’s included.”

L.A. was all about the new and the shiny. She was sure that if she talked them into it, they’d be happy to dump their used sofas and last year’s TV for newer models. Jane would get a discount, they’d get a blank slate, and everybody would be happy.

Within fifteen minutes she had her house. Fully furnished, all utilities in Jane’s name. She took care of the basics first. It was good to have something to do; that meant she didn’t have to face her major problem—how the hell to start.

Also, she didn’t think about Craig as much—when she was busy.

She called a cab into Beverly Hills and bought herself a car. Something hot and successful—the right look for the young female entrepreneur on the move. A small silver Porsche, chic and flashy; with her Ray-Ban shades on top of her head, and a bright red leather briefcase by Coach at her side, her look was well on its way.

When all
that
was done she bought a load of groceries and stocked the fridge.